Bill Stewart – Breaking the Fetters

Comrades: Anatole Naumovich Kaminsky (Part Two).

The second of two pictures of Anatole Kaminsky in his MI5 file.

Anatole Naumovich Kaminsky married Bob Stewart’s daughter Annie at some point during 1933. This is an overview of what I found in his security file when I visited the National Archives last year and any inaccuracies are my own. This post concerns information the British secret services gathered on him during his brief visits to Britain while the details of his arrest and execution can be found in ‘Comrades: Anatole Naumovich Kaminsky (Part One)’. Ultimately, this is all the information I have found out about Kaminsky but I would love to know more.

Anatole Naumovich Kaminsky first arrived in the United Kingdom on the 10^th September 1930. Sailing from the Hook of Holland and docking at Harwich, it’s likely that it was his first visit or, at least, he had never caught the attention of the security services before. His arrival records state that he was 23 years old, a Russian national and that he carried a Soviet passport. His proposed address in the UK was given as “Arcos, London”. Arcos was the All-Russian Co-operative Society – the organisation which oversaw Anglo-Soviet trade. Three years before, its Hampstead headquarters had been raided by the British authorities and evidence of espionage uncovered. The whole affair had been a cause celebre and the relationship between Britain and the Soviet Union, always palpably frosty, had cooled somewhat as a consequence. Kaminsky came in on a six month visa and was employed as a commercial secretary. It’s clear from the outset that the security services were intending to keep an eye on him.

Initial investigations found that Kaminsky was much more than a secretary. In a letter dated 27^th March 1930 Captain Guy Liddell, then of Special Branch, wrote to Oswald Allen Harker in MI5 with the following information:

Dear Harker,

Application was made a short time ago in Moscow for a visa for Anatole Naumovitch KAMINSKI, born 1907. This man who was then secretary of the Scientific Technical Section of the Society for the Promotion of Cultural Relations with Countries Abroad in Moscow, was coming here as a secretary to Arcos. Preliminary enquiries through SIS show that he is a scientist and is in touch with military scientific men in the “Revoyensoviet”. He has also been working in the Osoaviachim. He is a full member of the VKP (b).

KAMINSKI arrived her on the 10th September and proceeded to 81, Kensington Gardens Square, W.

The involvement with the Osoaviachim was of particular concern as that was the society concerned with the construction of military aircraft and chemical warfare research. There is little else in the file at this point other than establishing links with the director of Arcos Vladimir Belgoff and his wife Sophie. There was a request to intercept all mail at the Belgoff’s address 14 Tenterden Drive in Hendon and it looks like Kaminsky might have been staying with them for a time.

I assume Kaminsky left the UK sometime in March 1931 due to the length of his visa. However, he made a return visit in December of that year as part of The Trade Delegation of the USSR in Great Britain and, this time, he was listed as a “consulting economist”. Shortly after this on the 7^th January 1932, he appeared in a news story in the Daily Mail. Despite the snideness of the journalist remarking on Kaminsky’s “broken English” the economist’s assurances that his activities are strictly business and nothing whatsoever to do with intelligence gathering are spectacularly unconvincing.

Transcript of The Daily Mail article from 1932 Anatole Kaminsky’s MI5 file.

ARCOS IMPUDENCE.

Demands to British Firms.

An impudent letter which British firms have received recently from Arcos is making them wonder what secret object the Soviet trade organisation in this country is pursuing under the disguise of innocent business relationships.

The letter explains that Arcos is anxious to “tabulate information on industrial and technical lines concerning their production and general characteristics of distinguished British firms, with whom we have commercial relations, to be placed upon record for reference when deciding orders for the forthcoming year.”

It proceeds: “We ask you especially to give technical information in detail such as measurements, size and capacity of machines.” It demands information “in detail” and not “under general headings” and instructs that replies should be sent “in triplicate.”

Then follows a questionnaire, half of which could be filled in from ordinary business books. It includes such questions as dividends paid, if any, from 1926 to 1931 and number of work people employed.

‘Comrade’ A. KAMINSKY, of the economic department of Arcos, is responsible for this piece of effrontery. He had little explanation to offer yesterday when asked by a Daily Mail reporter what was the object of this so-called business inquiry. “Just to assist us in making purchases,” he answered in broken English.

When it was suggested to him that the replies would be useful for the secret archives of Moscow, ‘Comrade’ KAMINSKY gave his favourite answer: “Oh, no, you make big mistake, just business purposes only.”

Kaminsky came to the attention of the security services again in January 1933 when he arrived in the UK on a short term visa only valid for a few months. It stated that he was returning to the same post, however, during this time, it was his personal life rather than the professional which interested MI5. It is likely that this was when he married Bob Stewart’s daughter Annie, my father’s Aunt Nan. There are several enquiries about this and it is confirmed by Superintendent Canning of Special Branch in May of that year.

“In reference to the enquiries which you were recently good enough to have made regarding Annie Walker STEWART (301/MP/2860), it has just been reported from a source which is I think reliable, that this woman is married to a Russian called KAMINSKY.”

Of course the security services were already interested in Bob Stewart for his roles in the covert finance of the CPGB, his time as the British representative to the Comintern and his associations in Ireland. They also clearly considered Annie and her older brothers William and Rab to be persons of interest due to their links to Arcos and it is likely that all three had some involvement, however slight, in Bob’s underground activities.

Although Annie’s marriage to a Soviet official who seemed to be rising through the ranks would have ensured the security services attention it seems the pair did little to attract it. The next mention of Kaminsky is from March 1934 when the passport office is extending his visa and its confirmed that, “This alien has not come under notice.”

Nevertheless, MI5 still tracked Kaminsky’s movements and gathered information on him. There’s a record that on March 4^th 1934 there was a lecture at the “London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. The lecturer was to be A. KAMINSKY, Soviet Economist, of the First Moscow State University, and the subject to be ‘The Second Five Year Plan.’” Also that year MI5 received intelligence that Kaminsky was “the real power behind Arcos” and that he was “either married to or living with Nan STUART, the daughter of the Clydeside Communist.” One hopes the agent who drafted that memo was slightly more knowledgeable about potential threats to the nation than they were about Scottish geography. Bob was a Dundonian – not a Glaswegian. It’s likely they were confusing Bob with Willie Gallacher.

By October 1935, Anatole and Annie had moved to Moscow although they were in regular contact with the family back in London. Being so far away Annie would have been eager for news from home and, in the files, there is an intercepted letter from Bob dated the 8^th October. The security services were mostly interested in the references to Harry Pollitt, the head of the CPGB and his wife Marjorie. However, the letter is largely domestic. Bob’s wife Margaret is ‘in the tub’ and Bob is taking the opportunity to write to their daughter. There is some news of ‘Bill and family’ – my grandfather, grandmother and my dad – baby Robin- who would have been two years old at the time. There’s some gossip about Rab, Bob’s middle child and his new girlfriend. The anecdote about them singing makes me smile as when I met his daughter Linda for the first time last year she remarked that what her father loved above all else was music. Towards the end there’s some talk of knitting and this is because Annie would have been pregnant at the time with my father’s cousin Greg. Bob and Margaret were eagerly awaiting their second grandchild.

Part of the letter from Bob Stewart to Annie and Anatole. (1935).

Dear N & N again,

Your letter arrived a couple of hours ago and we three enjoyed its contents. So very glad to know that you are both so well. This seems to be washing night. Rab balked and hopped off to bed, mother is now in the tub. While the old man, like the dutiful father he is, sits down to write this letter straight away lest tomorrow he should be too busy in other directions. The new situation is imposing duties that cannot wait as you will readily appreciate. We are well in health. Rab walks fairly comfortably now and is on the hunt for a job. Mother is all right again and of course the old man is the XXXX-XXXX-XXXX or thereby.

We were glad that you remembered our Welsh friends who are really the most excellent comrades. I hope you will be successful in helping them out. Very glad that P____ is going to help you get numbers? Tolia has many things to do and maybe he is modest about his own comfort. We were so glad to get his picture cards from way down South to find that his writing arm was still in good order. I gave Harry your message- he says it’s between you and Marjorie whom I saw a day or two ago. She is looking and feeling very well as is Jean who played merry hell when I couldn’t play with her any longer. We have not seen Bill and family for a fortnight but they are all well and Robin has had more photographs taken. Everyone likes to take his picture and he quite likes it. We have now got a big one of him and all the lady visitors are taking him for a walk -he is so lovely to look at they say.

We have had numbers of visitors recently among them XXXX’s auntie who is much interested in you but more in Rab who needs to help with the printers of whom we have now quite a few. We had Tom Wilson and C____ up for tea and we had a young girlfriend from a distance staying the weekend. She and Rab sang all our favourites till the wee sma’ oors. It was delightful. She reminded mother very much of you although her singing was a vast improvement on yours. She went away home overwhelmed by the kindness of your mother which is not unusual. We also had a visit from one of the numerous Clark family who want me to share with you the joys of the children’s movement at home. I don’t remember his first name he’s got a job in some club or hotel down Leatherhead way – not much of a job but better than idleness. Yes! We read in your XXXX all about the XXXX expansion of trade and the XXXX values brings to you all. It’s a remarkable achievement and opens the door to new XXXX. It’s a consolidation of brilliance compared to the darkening skies elsewhere. The centre the world’s attention is now on Africa and as you’ll see by the British XXXX there is a lack of confusion and in some cases XXXX XXXX in our movement. It’s an acid test that will reveal much base metal. Probably you will have seen Jane ‘ere you get this. I hope she will benefit from her sojourn in your country. Hope to get some of your orders shipped in the course of the next fortnight if I’m not called away! I notice the knitting needles being used here and no doubt you’ll be pleased with the result – the other fittings may not be so easy to get but will have a good try on the first fine day. I think that’s all I’ve got to say at this time except that the weather is as wet as you have had it. Even as we are all bearing up – always cheered up when your letters come along. All the same I could have sat in on mothers celebration and I think Rab’s teeth were watering when I thought of what he could have done had he been around. I don’t know if I told you that Jimmy B had a XXXX XXXX badly and has been under medical care for three weeks. He seems to have got over the worst but it is a XXXX XXXX blow as he had to cancel all engagements and new ones will not be easy to get. Cheerio- it’s bedtime.

Love from all to you all,

Dad.

(I’ve used XXXX when I can’t make out the Bob’s handwriting.)

Greg was born in Moscow in early 1936 and, in the summer, Annie took him to London so that everyone could be introduced to the latest addition to the family. Anatole stayed behind in the Soviet Union but wrote regularly. MI5 intercepted the following letter from him addressed to Annie and their son. The letter has all the hallmarks of the new parent – concern, pride and love. However, just over a year later Anatole’s brother, Grigory, was arrested and executed in Stalin’s purges, setting in motion his own imprisonment and eventual murder.

Letter from Anatole Kaminsky to Annie Stewart. (1936).

17^th June 1936

Dearest Nan and XXXX

Last night I received your long letter and felt very happy that you are managing well. It was nice to hear that calm and sunny weather made your journey bright and not a difficult one.

A few days ago I got your note from the sea and Dad’s ‘epistle’. It makes a pleasant reading to find out that old people and the whole family are taking such a keen interest in our wee sonny. I think he already succeeded to prove that he is a thoroughly good boy and deserves all the love and care bestowed upon him. As to his ??? on the face I think it will go away after some fresh fruit and vegetable diet of his milking cow – (Sorry to use zoo terms!)

Have a complete rest, change over to fruit eats and drinks and don’t take troubles of any kind. I don’t give anymore advice is as you have very good advisers around you with lots of experience gained during a long life. The only remark will be the main thing is to develop regular habits a good regime.

Anatole

According to his file, Anatole made one more visit to the United Kingdom. Beforehand, the Soviet Ambassador Ivan Maisky wrote to the Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden to request a visa so Kaminsky could attend trade negotiations.

M. Maisky, Ambassador of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in Great Britain, presents his compliments to His Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and has the honour to request a visa for M. Anatole Kaminsky who is a financial expert, and is coming to this country to take part in the financial negotiations which are going on between the Trade Representative of the USSR in London and the Board of Trade.

As his presence here is urgently required, M. Maisky would be obliged if the instructions granting him a visa could be telegraphed to Moscow at the Embassy’s expense.

11th of July, 1936.

The Rt. Hon. Anthony Eden, MC, MP,

Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.

Anatole Naumovich Kaminsky arrived in Britain from Amsterdam by aeroplane on or around the 1^st August 1936 and was recorded as an “Economic Advisor to the USSR Trade Delegation.” An unconditional landing was granted. This is the last record I can find of Kaminsky in the MI5 files until 1956 when, after Khruschev’s speech denouncing Stalin, Annie and her teenage son, Greg found out exactly what had happened to him after his arrest by the NKVD in June 1938.

Alan Stewart.

Comrades: Michael Robin Stewart.

Before it got dropped from the GCSE English Literature syllabus, I used love teaching ‘Before You Were Mine’ by Carol Ann Duffy. In the poem, Duffy describes a photograph of her mother as a teenager, laughing with two friends on a Glasgow street corner in the 1950s. The wind blows her polka dot dress around Marilyn Monroe style. Duffy was recently bereaved when she wrote it and the snapshot presents an altogether different person from the parent she knew. The image prompts her to imagine the intense years of teenage life and early adulthood of her mother a decade before she was born. Growing up, Duffy caught glimpses of the person her mother used to be but, of course, they had become someone else entirely.

The poem offered me a lot of scope in the classroom to do what I do best: show off a lot. Nicking my partner’s high heels so I could act out the infant Duffy walking around in her mother’s shoes and bringing in a stray disco ball we had in the living room and suspending it in front of the Smartboard projector to mimic a dancehall from the mid twentieth century. All of this, I imagined, would highlight to the class the distance between who their parents were now and who they used to be. I’m not sure how much my students learned but I had fun. It’s strikes me now that that a tendency to put on a performance at the drop of a hat and a love of poetry are two of the main things I’ve inherited from my dad. My most perfect memories of him are when he was entertaining crowds of drinkers during Christmas and New Year in the pub he ran and, at other times, being the only person I knew who would sit quietly reading poetry behind the bar on a slow afternoon shift while the cigarette between his fingers became three quarters ash before collapsing all down his front. My parents had children quite late on in life for their generation and perhaps it’s because my father and Duffy’s mother would have been roughly contemporaries that this particular poem resonates with me. When he died I came to realise there was so much about him I didn’t really know.

To my brother and I he was ‘Dad’, to practically everyone else he was ‘Mike’ but to his side of the family, who we rarely met, he was ‘Robin’. I have a mountain of photographs of him in his youth and, if I weren’t a terrible poet, I might attempt something along the lines of ‘Before You Were Mine’. However, by way of consolation, I have much more than old photographs. Thanks to the security services interest in his grandfather Bob, and to a lesser extent his own father Bill, both founder members of the Communist Party of Great Britain, my father occasionally turns up in the intercepted letters, transcripts of bugged conversations and observation logs of MI5, all of which are available at the National Archives. I can’t put into words what it meant to find him there. You’d expect there to be an element of Cold War spy movie glamour in all this but the reality is much more mundane. He was an odd figure to turn up in the files – categorically the least likely threat to the nation’s security who ever lived. That didn’t stop the state secretly documenting his existence by default. What follows are the moments where I’ve found him in the once top secret documents. Of course it doesn’t describe the person I knew – it’s an imperfect and haphazard depiction reliant on stray comments from many different people made years apart. The reader is unlikely to get an idea of of who my dad was from all this and whether it is of interest to anyone else I can’t tell but it matters little. I write all this down purely for my brother Ian, myself and our mother. We loved him and we miss him. It is the fifth anniversary of his death and we wish he was still here.

The first appearance is an extract from a letter written in 1933 by Red Clydeside hero and future Communist MP Willie Gallacher to his wife. He mentions Bob Stewart’s return from one of his many trips abroad and his surprise on his return to find out he had become a grandfather. The baby was our dad who was born a few weeks before.

…I saw Bob Stewart yesterday. Bill’s wife is in hospital. She had a baby a couple of days ago. Bob didn’t know a thing until it arrived. Both are doing well…

Just over two years later dad appears in a letter from Bob Stewart to his daughter Nan and her husband Anatole Kaminsky. The couple had recently moved to Moscow and are eager for news about the family. Even as a toddler dad seems to be demonstrating one of his key characteristics- a love of the limelight and thriving in front of an audience.

…We have not seen Bill and family for a fortnight but they are all well and Robin has had more photographs taken. Everyone likes to take his picture and he quite likes it. We have now got a big one of him and all the lady visitors are taking him for a walk -he is so lovely to look at they say…. (8/10/35)

“…Everyone like to take his picture and he quite likes it…”

The next encounters are via the reports of MI5 agents as they follow my grandfather, eager to find out what exactly his job at the Soviet Embassy entails. It’s all very John Le Carre. Is it weird to know that spies were watching your dad play in the park when he was three years old? Yes.

17th August 1936.

re/ William STEWART, Soho Street, W

For thirteen days, between 30th July and 15th inst. observation was kept on this man but nothing of importance was seen except on 10th inst. when he and GLADING met for half an hour, between 1 and 2 p.m. at a public house in Queens Road, W.

STEWART attends the Soviet Embassy daily from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. and appears to be employed there the whole of that time apart from his hour for lunch which he takes generally alone at a cafe or public house at Notting Hill Gate.

On leaving work he goes direct home and usually remains there although on one or two occasions he has taken his young child to play in Hyde Park…

Surveillance was maintained on William Stewart throughout his employment at the Russian embassy to the extent that the security services are also following our grandmother on the school run at a discreet distance.

7th August 1937.

Re: William STEWART

Between 16th July and 5th August observation for sixteen days has been kept on the above. He is still living at 3, Soho Street, W.1, with his wife and small boy, but during the period of observation has been attending the Soviet Embassy at irregular intervals, and he would appear to have been on leave.

Stewart’s wife who has also been kept under observation takes the child most days to 15, Greek Street, W., a Catholic kindergarten school where he is left all day and collected about 5 pm…

Our grandfather William with our dad sometime around the late 1930s or early 1940s.

There are a few other mentions of Dad around this time- always referred to as ‘the child’. Mainly mundane visits to shops or relatives. However, the surveillance comes to an end as by 1938 our grandad was no longer working at the Soviet Embassy. Moscow had decided their diplomatic service should not employ anyone who wasn’t a Soviet citizen and so his position no longer existed. For a while he was working away as the catering manager at Laycock Engineering Company in Sheffield. It’s looks like this was a position he took on for money rather than anything to do with espionage. However, MI5 weren’t taking any chances and began to intercept his letters home.

My own Darling,

I have just got in from a rather heavy day, Furnell and Bolton another chief (I’m wondering how many chiefs I have on this firm) have been this evening and are coming again tomorrow. Talk about slave driving it isn’t in it. They expect me to do a whole lot more yet and I gave them quite quietly a piece of my mind. Furnell says I am a good chap but I must get still higher percentage and I don’t see how it is humanly possible. If it wasn’t for the fact that jobs are so damn hard to get I would walk out on it. I don’t mind work and I have worked harder than anyone in Laycocks that’s Walker’s own statement. Now I feel that I am being played with and being used in some gigantic swindle. Anyway did “Our lad” get his “chewing gum” and you your “Woodbines”?

Bless you both I wish I had you here to talk to now don’t worry my pet I won’t do anything drastic but it is hellish when you work like a slave and to be told your giving satisfaction one minute and then something else the next. I feel so tired now so I will off to the post and then turn in.

Bless you both and keep you.

Yours ever,

William – your own Bill.

Dad at Tottenham Lido early 1940s. Grandad second from left also at the Lido guarding the home front.

By the time The Second World War began, Bill had taken up the position of catering manager at Tottenham Lido and, apart from ensuring that he wasn’t called up due to his ‘past record’, MI5’s interest in him seems to have waned. Consequently, it’s not until 28th September 1951 that we catch sight of dad again. He would have been eighteen years old and, perhaps for the first and last time, a potential person of interest for the security services. A report from Essex County Constabulary outlines some concerns about William Stewart, licensee of The White Hart Hotel in Manningtree and his son after they had been instructed to make “discreet enquiries”. After noting grandad’s interest in politics, his meeting with far left associates and that he took The Daily Worker attention turns towards dad.

The son Michael has been attending a technical school in London to be trained as a chef and in hotel management.

He only comes home at week-ends, but not every week-end. His London address has not been obtained to date.

It is said that he has appeared on the stage in a Noel Coward production in London, and knows many actors.

He is shortly to be called for National Service (Believed October, 1951).

It is not known whether he attends political meetings. No political meetings are known to be held in this District.

It is known that this person holds Communist views. One customer pointed this out to the licensee who made no comment

Michael usually assists his father in the public house when he comes home.

Further discreet enquiries will be made as the opportunity presents.

The Noel Coward play was actually ‘The Dancing Years’ by Ivor Novello at the Casino which has since reverted back to it’s original name, the Prince Edward’s Theatre. It was his sole engagement, at the age of fourteen, as a professional actor. I remember the delight he took in telling us about the different characters that inhabited the Soho world that he encountered and how much he enjoyed the role of ‘Otto- the bastard son’. The idea of dad holding communist views is also interesting. Certainly not something he clung on too. In a way, it wouldn’t be surprising due to the milieu of his upbringing but as far as I know he was never a member of the CPGB. His parents were unusual in communist circles in that William had ‘married out’ – his mother Jess wasn’t a party member either. And she wielded a very strong influence over him. Growing up, it was Boy’s Brigade for dad rather than the Young Communist League. In later life his politics were broadly left wing but not particularly partisan. I remember him sitting on a beer keg the day after the 1987 Conservative victory smoking and looking folorn. “We’ll get through it somehow,” he said to me. In fact, the last video clip of him I have is from 2017. you can hear me off camera asking him how he was going to vote in the general election. Due to to vascular dementia it’s unlikely he could remember the name of the Labour Party let alone any of its major figures at the time. He looks straight at the camera and says, after some thought, “Socialist.”

As the police noted, Dad was shortly to be called up for National Service which is the subject of his next appearance in the files. There’s a letter from Bill to his father dated 27th November 1952.

…Robin was in slight trouble last week! he was put on charge for being unshaved, up before the Captain under escort hat & belt off – was admonished, the RQSM put a good word in…

While in the army Dad did make it to the rank of Sergeant a fact which will forever astound me because, if there is one single that could define him, it was his lifelong inability to distinguish between his left and his right. How he managed on the parade ground I do not know.

Transcripts of conversations from 1956 picked up by the listening device hidden in Bob Stewart’s office at CPGB HQ .

By 1956 Dad was in his early twenties and he drifts in and out of the files as Bob Stewart struggles with the twin shocks of Khruschev’s revelations about Stalin and the Soviets actions in Hungary. In March there’s a surprise as it appears he was about to be married. This was four years before he met our mother- my brother and I might never have been born. I imagine the photographs on mum’s mantlepiece fading ‘Back to the Future’ style.

BOB STEWART welcomed another comrade whom he later addressed as BILL. BOB asked BILL if he had come in the previous day. BILL replied that he had and had left a message because he had so much running about to do. BILL said that he had been after a job in Whitechapel in a coffee snack bar and he was to start on Tuesday. BOB wanted to know how this would affect ROBIN. BILL replied that ROBIN was getting his own little place fixed up as he was going to get married. ROBIN was up in Hull at the present time; his ship was having a refit. BILL next asked BOB how everybody was and BOB told him that NAN had decided to have a week’s holiday from the 16th. BOB said he did not hear very much from GREG…

In June, however, it’s all over much to the relief of Grandma Jess. No one’s good enough for her son.

BILL STEWART arrived. He told BOB STEWART that he was at Kings Cross for a week. He made some reference to a cafe in Bromley and then said he had also been at Paddington. He was very indistinct but it seems he was filling holiday vacancies at various cafes. He said he was keeping on his digs in Molesey. BOB asked him details about his pay and conditions etc. and then wanted to know how JESS was and if ROBIN was married yet. JESS was all right apparently, in fact rather better than she had been because ROBIN’S affair was ‘all off’. BILL then went on to say that he had been to Derby and to Rutland for four days. BILL had told his father he was going on his last visit to King St. Other members of the family were discussed, including NAN, BILL’S sister, with whom, BOB said, he was having a hell of a time over the Soviet business.

‘The Soviet business’ refers not just to the public reaction to Khruschev’s speech but the devastating news of what had happened to Nan’s husband, Anatole Kaminsky. He’d been arrested by the NKVD in Moscow in the late 1930s. Nan had escaped with baby Greg, my dad’s cousin, but they’d had no news for years. The new openness of 1956 brought with it the news that Greg’s father had been shot in 1941. Relationships within the family were strained and I have a feeling they remained that way from then on. Understandably Nan and Greg went on to reject communism entirely. Maybe the ramifications of this are why we never really knew Dad’s side of the family. Until relatively recently I was unaware of these events and I’m sad that I’ll never know the truth of it now because Dad’s not around to ask.

In addition to this, the Soviet invasion of Hungary ensured my Dad and Greg’s generation viewed the USSR with much more scepticism than their parents and grandparents. There’s a transcript of a tapped telephone call fom grandad to Bob which mentions Dad’s concern over the events in Budapest. Bob and grandad however are rather more defiant.

I/C call to BOB from BILL STEWART (BOB’s son). BILL, asks when BOB got back as he didn’t know he was back. BILL says something about telling MOIRA five weeks ago. He says the last he heard BOB was in the Sanatorium. He says GEOFF and ROBIN (Michael Robin STEWART – BOB’s grandson – son of Bill STEWART have been up in London, and he is now in a job at Liverpool Street where he starts early in the morning. BILL says he is in digs at Ampney Court but is going to try to get digs more centrally placed. BILL says ROBIN and JESS are fine. But ROBIN is worrying about the situation. BOB says there are only two sides in this business “our side, and the other side. Whether it’s mistakes or accidents or anything else of that kind, It’s got nothing to do with it. It’s a show down now, and we’ve either got to fight it through or not?” BILL replies “Yes that’s the line”. BOB says, “We can’t stand on the side lines”. BILL agrees saying “No, no, there’s no flagwaving in this business you either fight or you don’t.” BOB says “Very serious business, there’s no saying where it will end”. BOB says “The honeymoon’s over anyway, and the rest is just to be”. BILL asks about BOB’s trip to Russia etc. BOB says he travelled a lot and will tell BILL about it when he sees him. They will fix up something on the telephone arranging for BILL to come out one evening after his work to see them. BILL sends his love to everyone.

Tapped telephone call 1957. Letter from Grandad to John Gollan 1967.

From 1957, other than a comment from grandad about his brother in law having ‘promised ROBIN a guitar’ dad starts to fade from view in the security files. There appears to be nothing for a decade. After all, grandad’s involvement in the covert world of Communist agitation seems to have dwindled and Bob is blind and bedbound. The last reference is a letter from grandad to John Gollan, the General Secretary of the CPGB dating from 1967.

Dear Comrade Gollan,

On behalf of my wife and I and of my son and his wife I wish to thank the Executive for this invitation to Dad’s birthday celebrations.

I do hope sufficient publicity will give rise to fast sales of the book to the benefit of the Party.

Congratulations to you for your ‘Socialism in the Sixties’.

This would have been Bob Stewart’s 90th birthday at the CPGB HQ at King Street, Covent Garden and the launch of his autobiography ‘Breaking the Fetters’. It’s also, I think, the only time my mother makes an appearance in the security files.

I had my dad for 45 years. He was wonderful and I treasure his memory. I do not know why I have to write all this down – I only know that it helps. Rereading Alison Light’s magisterial book on family history and why we need to know who came before us and what we owe them I came across these words from Joseph Brodsky, “What’s the point of forgetting if it ends in dying?” That might be part of it but, more importantly, and more simply, I wish I could speak to Dad now and learn more about who he was all those years ago before he was mine. But I can’t. So, this will have to do.

Alan Stewart.

Michael Robin Stewart on his 84th birthday about five months before he died. I think this picture gives an indication who he really was. A gloriously silly man. I love you Dad x

The Family Firm.

*The Stewart Family pictured in the mid 1920s: -R: Bob, Rab, Annie (Nan), William and Margaret.*

To the best of my knowledge the last person in my family to still be fully committed to a Marxist-Leninist revolution died in 1978. He was my grandfather William Stewart and he was lovely. However, even though those that remain have spent the intervening forty-four years failing to overthrow the capitalist system, communism has loomed ever present in the background in our lives for all sorts of reasons. It is a bittersweet inheritance. I suppose there is nothing surprising in its presence as, from the inception of the CPGB in 1920, communism essentially became the family business for the next fifty years. Practically everyone was involved.

At the end of 1955 – a few months before Khrushchev would acknowledge the crimes of Stalin for the first time in his ‘secret speech’ MI5 picked up some office gossip about the Stewart family through one of the bugs it had placed in the offices at the Communist Party’s HQ in King Street, Covent Garden. Reuben Falber, who, when Bob Stewart finally retired in 1957, would go on to be responsible for distributing funds from Moscow, was overheard talking to fellow party worker Betty Reid about a recent scandal involving Bob’s nephew Greg – a Cambridge student who had just been unforgivably rude to one of the comrades at Central Books. Here’s part of the transcript in the security files:

‘They’re a family that-well, they’re a law unto themselves because you’ve got a combination of the old fellow’s prestige and money. BETTY asked where the money came from. Regret FALBER’s reply was whispered and could not be followed.

(From the MI5 Security File on Bob Stewart KV2/2790 – The National Archives)

The ‘old fellow’ is, of course, Bob Stewart and quite clearly the whole family had something of a reputation within communist circles. In fact, Betty Reid, in a conversation recorded about eight months later, was of the opinion that the Stewart children – William, Rab and Nan, had been “thoroughly spoiled all their lives.” This kind of attitude is elaborated further in an earlier document I came across in my grandfather’s security file on a recent visit to the National Archives. It’s dated 17th October 1932 and appears to be a memorandum from Special Branch to MI5 concerning the activities of Bob and his three children. I reproduce it here in full partly because I think it’s an interesting account of how the Stewarts and other similar families were viewed within the movement but mainly because I love the description of my grandfather.

The following information has been received.

WILLIAM STEWART, who used to drive the Soviet Ambassador’s car has given up driving altogether and is now employed in the Embassy as a ‘trusted’ man. He recently stated that he was engaged there on work of a secret nature, which included a little clerical labour.

His hours are from 5pm until 1am and his wife also has a job at the Embassy.

He is forbidden to undertake Communist Party of Great Britain work.

He now wears a small moustache, Charlie Chaplin style, which gives him an altered appearance, and carries an ash walking-stick. He often wears a light green shirt, brown jacket and shorts (at other times grey flannel trousers), light brown rabbit-skin hat, and brown shoes. He apes the appearance and mannerisms of a university student.

His father, ‘Bob’, is at present in Belfast where he is assisting the Irish Revolutionary Workers’ Party.

His brother, who lived with Ralph Edwin BOND, and was attached to St. Pancras Local Communist Party of Great Britain, has now secured a situation at Arcos Ltd. as also has his wife. Both have been transferred to Islington Local.

His sister, who was active in the Young Communist League of Great Britain, and who went to Russia on several occasions, has gone to live there permanently. She also was employed at Arcos and married a principal of that concern. As he has been recalled to Russia, she has accompanied him.

The state of affairs here outlined indicates how the movement is ‘exploited as a meal ticket’ (to use the phrase of certain disgusted genuine Communists) by certain fortunate families.

The CAMPBELL family is another case in point. The sum of over £20 weekly is received in John Ross Campbell’s home from Soviet sources.

The WATKINS’ are in the same position, whilst there is a host of others.

There is keen resentment in the ‘movement’ over this condition of things. It is freely expressed that no man and wife should be allowed to hold a situation while other ‘Comrades’ are unemployed. This objection has taken root and considerable trouble on the point seems likely to develop.

SUPERINTENDENT.

(From the MI5 Security File on William Stewart KV2/4494 – The National Archives)

Alan Stewart.

William Stewart and the National Unemployed March to London, 1929.

The 1929 National Unemployed March from Glasgow to London arriving at Hyde Park.

Frankly, the 1920s do not seem very different to our own times. Huge inequality, increasing poverty and a government wholly indifferent to the situation, more concerned with preserving their interests and dismantling the rights of ordinary people. Liberal voices and the fourth estate hostile to any ideas that may remedy the situation. Perhaps the main difference between then and now is that, in the twenties, unemployment was the source of hardship whereas these days most people tipping into poverty are in work.

During the 1920s and 1930s there were numerous marches and protests to combat unemployment and hunger and my grandfather Bill Stewart was on one of the first. I recently discovered two documents that shed a little light on these times. One of them was my grandad’s own handwritten account of his experiences, written sometime in the 1970s for The Morning Star. The other was a letter to Bill from trade union legend Tom Mann- a colleague and friend of his father Bob Stewart.

Letter from Tom Mann to William Stewart.

The envelope is addressed to ‘Comrade William Stewart – WITH THE MARCHING UNEMPLOYED’ to be picked up at the Aylesbury post office on or after the 20th February. The marchers had made it on foot from Glasgow to Buckinghamshire in a little less than a month. The letter is on the headed notepaper of the National Unemployed Workers Committees Movement – an organisation set up by the CPGB to highlight the conditions of the unemployed after the First World War and on the back Tom Mann has scrawled something along the lines of ‘Good luck Will- you’ve stuck it grand.’ There’s even a signed photograph. The letter reads:

To Comrade Will Stewart and the Boys on the March.

Dear Comrades,
I send you a word of hearty good luck and sincere congratulations on your splendid march.

In London we are eager for all details as to how you fare on the road. We
are doing our best to prepare nicely for you on your arrival.

You have done splendidly and are now within a few days of your destination. In spite of all obstacles you have achieved your purpose so far and we believe will carry it out to the letter.

I am hoping to meet you at Watford on Friday, continue in the
same spirit of Comradely devotion to our great cause and you will do much to bring about betterment now and the great Industrial and Social change for the future.

Hail to the Marchers;
Fraternally Yours,

Tom Mann

Part of William Stewart’s handwritten account of the 1929 Unemployment March from Glasgow to London.

William Stewart’s own handwritten account seems to have been written sometime in the 1970s almost fifty years after the event. It sheds more light on what it was like to be on the march and the issues they faced on the way. Wal Hannington was a founding member of the CPGB and the head of the National Unemployed Workers’ Movement. If any one could identify the Geo Middleton mentioned I’d be extremely grateful.

I have just been reading your article in this morning’s Morning Star on the Hunger Marchers, and I think that apart from the actual primary importance of the political side of the campaign, please let us tell the up and coming militants what made an ‘Unemployable Person’ (as the title often was quoted) a Hunger Marcher.

I took part in the first Scottish Hunger March from Glasgow to London, we gathered in the centre of Glasgow made up of Clydeside engineers, jute workers from Dundee, fish and dock workers from Aberdeen Scottish miners from Fife and elsewhere in fact a representative section of the working class of Scotland. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor altogether some 300 marched off with Wal Hannington, Geo Middleton and a braw lad from the Isle of Arran. I must not omit the mobile soup kitchen of this ‘great little army’. It was an old tin Lizzie which had been an ornate ice cream cart common in Scotland. For our purpose it was fitted with an old wash house boiler (as used these days for cooking pigs swill) a few sacks of boiler coke and firewood and of course a ‘cook’ of whom more later.

The month of January was not best weatherwise in Scotland and as we progressed on our way snow was falling as we marched through Thornhill singing the old marching songs of the Movement in which we were soon to become as efficient as any body of marching troups and when London’s Trafalgar Square was reached our rendition of Macgregor’s Gathering and the Hunger Marchers song was worthy of a Red Army Choir.

I am transgressing, to get back to purport of these notes I must go back to our march across the border into Carlisle, here along a country road came the power of the law in the shape of a PC Sergeant and Chief Constable resplendent in blue and yards of black braid and a flashing silver nobbed cane. Wall gave the command to stand to attention coming abreast of the Chief Constable – he stepped forward saluted Wal and said ‘Mr Hannington you have a fine body of well disciplined men. I had visions of a rabble.’ Our well organised army of determined men had evoked a Chief Constable’s admiration. Sad to say this was not the case as we progressed.

What comradeship and warmth we received – the big splendid meals of hot vegetable soups and through Lancashire the tons of hotpot consumed as we lay down on school floors or club floors tired but proud with the great justification of the duty we were performing for our class. Proud of the bands of working class women who cooked and fed us at each halt on the way – of butchers who handed us joints of meat – bakers who gave us bread and buns – of the Co-op Womans Guild who organised their local Co-op resources on our behalf – of women, whose homes were full of their own unemployed fathers and sons, took and did washing for us.

Each marcher had an Army blanket which on the march was rolled and worn bandolier wise over our overcoats and with each man wearing an Army haversack we did look as if we meant business – marching in battalion formation of companies and sections, (we had no lack of military advisers- many of the lads were ex-servicemen).

Our commander and his deputy Wal Hannington and Geo Middleton respectively were tremendous, not forgetting the role they played – for want of a better name – political commissars.

To get back to my story and to emphasise the main purpose of writing is to show that it was in the organisation and the day to day problems and details dealt with by “Our Command’ without this the impact on the community would have been lost. All working class organisations rallied to us as the march continued south.

We had a cyclist courier on an old boneshaker who would ride ahead to alert local comrades of our impending arrival and make arrangements for our rest at night – all important when we had forced our march to some 30miles in one day on some occasions.

Wal Hannington- head of the National Unemployed Workers’ Movement.

We were approaching Warwick – our scout or courier said we would have to go to the ‘Spike’ that night and he was not too sure of the ‘Workhouse Master’. As we marched in that evening there stood the Master well dressed in tweeds and stout brown brogues – the envy of the Army booted marchers. His eyes showed his amazement at our discipline quietly he said ‘this is not what I expected’ and he re-arranged all the quarters and implemented the meals after which he asked Wal and I to share his supper in his own quarters and as the meal of lamb and pickles progressed and Wal explained the reason and the purpose of what the march involved he grew in admiration and from a hostile attitude almost came to flattering of our efforts. He voluntarily waved the 3hour work rule then in force – (any person using the workhouse overnight was compelled to do such things as cleaning, wood chopping and coal carrying. This was not always the case as in later cases when a downright refusal had to be made at other workhouses). As Wal and I said good night to him and walked across to the main building and our floor space Wal said to me “Billy another couple of hours with that bloke I would have had him packing up and joining us.

On down through Lancashire among the lassies in their clogs and shawls ladling out mountains of hotpot full of meat scrounged off local butchers and cigarettes from their own meagre supplies – though on occasions a Tobacconist gave a supply of Woodbines, Shag and papers

What an army from Glasgow to London without a courtmartial! At no time was anyone reported for drinking such was the effect of good leadership and voluntary discipline in our day to day organisation of ordinary working blokes with intellect enough to understand how worthwhile this great effort was. Many had little knowledge of The Working Class Movement when the march started other than they were against the system that had unjustly degraded them but the hell of it had not broken the spirit that took them on the march.

One wee chap whose feet were a bit sore as we marched along half whispered to me ‘Hey Bill I’ve been thinking we missed a wee thing at the start of this — job – we should have sent a telegram to Budyonny to hae sent us some o his Red Cavalry horses – ma feet always walked better in stirrups? Later I learnt he had been in the Scots Greys.

The bedding down at night were like any barrack room except the arguments were on a higher plain and as the march progressed the full sense of class and political involvement came to the top and the knowledge of fully participating in the struggle of the masses and the need to implement their knowledge grew in their eagerness and enlightenment so that when London came everyman Jack was fully conscious of every facet of the political causes that prompted our actions as working class militants.

The Case of the SS Stalingrad, the Polar Bear and the Barrels of Siberian Honey.

God, how my father loved to tell stories. At his funeral I spoke about the times in my twenties when I used to ring home and he would talk and talk to the point where I would put the receiver down and walk off for five minutes to make a cup of tea. When I picked up again, dad would still be going strong, never knowing he’d been speaking to empty space. In the week following his death I searched everywhere for any recording I had of him and his voice. I imagine a lot of people who don’t stop talking only ever think of themselves but I don’t think this was true of dad. He was interested in everything and everyone. Our friends became his friends and he was always happiest surrounded by people. In short – he was a lot of fun.

Unfortunately, in his last years vascular dementia dulled a lot of this. Buttonholing strangers for random conversations and endlessly repeated reminiscences of his wartime childhood were the norm for a while. Whereas in the past his stories entertained us, now they just made us apprehensive. They were to be policed and quietly managed. He had no filter. There would be myself, my partner and our small child together with my parents on a day out and when we sat down for lunch in a cafe dad would often turn his chair around and begin regaling the family behind us with his criticisms of ‘the colour bar’ in the 1960s, or the Napoleonic wars, whatever came to mind at that moment. These strangers would look bemused and often a little alarmed wondering why this person had attached themselves to their party before we got his attention to turn back to us. However, the illness didn’t dull his sense of the absurd. A few years before he died, during one of the rare times our small family was all together, he told a bizarre anecdote about his father trapped on a cargo ship with a polar bear drunk on Siberian honey. I had originally remembered the bear as being loose on a Russian submarine but my brother put me right – his memory of the story makes much more sense.

Although I can’t recall the exact words, dad’s tale left indelible images in my mind. Here’s my attempt at a retelling:

An icy breeze buffets the gulls gliding in the stone grey Leningrad skies. The docks seem busier than usual – all the activity focussed on a cargo ship berthed on the western side already sitting heavy in the water ready for its voyage. On the quayside, amongst the bedraggled dockworkers, stands a group of soldiers with rifles on their shoulders smoking and chatting nervously amongst themselves. Sailors weave past them, hats pulled down and jackets fastened tight against the Baltic air as they make the final preparations for their journey. Just one more item of cargo to load.

A crane rattles and wheezes into life. The crowds of dockers, soldiers and sailors all stop for a moment to gaze up at the large cage now being loaded on to the deck. Inside lies a huge mass of white fur which undulates slowly. Wheezing and snuffling sounds can be heard – the beast is heavily sedated. However, it is the large, black claws, each one the size of a hunting knife, that seizes the bystanders’ attention. This very large, very dangerous polar bear is on its way to London. It is a gift from Stalin himself.

With some difficulty sailors and dockworkers push and heave the massive drugged carnivore into a small compartment down in the hold where it settles down to snore away the effects of the anaesthetic. There is relief when the bar is shut down against the door and the key is turned – every man fully aware of the damage their cargo could do if it woke up and decided to clamp its jaws around their head. The final preparations are made for the journey and before long the steamship is manoeuvring its way out of the harbour towards the Gulf of Finland and out to the Baltic Sea on its way to England.

Unfortunately, the comrades haven’t read their AA Milne. In a oversight that they would soon regret, the sailors have stored a consignment of Siberian honey next to the sleeping bear. It may as well have been a powder keg. There are barrels and barrels of the stuff and, while a small group of off duty sailors sit around and pass the time playing cards, a pungent, earthy smell diffuses throughout the hold.

One of the sailors there is called Bill- a communist from Scotland. He’s there to make sure everything runs smoothly. That Stalin’s magnanimous gift is delivered without a hitch. As the cards are dealt once again, Bill becomes aware of a low growl and a scratching noise coming from the bear’s compartment. He ignores it as do the rest of the company and the game goes on. They imagine the bear is simply dreaming in the way they’ve seen their pet dogs chase rabbits in their sleep. But the bear is not dreaming. Instead the bear is emerging slowly from its slumber and has caught the scent of the wild honey.

Before long, the smell begins to intoxicate and torment the beast. It begins to get more and more agitated. To begin with the card players merely shout at it to keep the noise down before returning to their game. The growls get louder and then suddenly there is a thudding noise as the bear slams itself against the door in an effort to get to the barrels. It’s at this point the men stop playing and look nervously at each other. There is another thud. The sailors get up. While the others step warily back, Bill takes a few steps towards the bear’s compartment but instinctively stops. It is a very bad idea. Another thud accompanied by an almighty roar and the sailors scatter in panic. They shout to their comrades on deck that the bear is escaping. They shout to their comrades to bring rifles. Another thud and the sound of wood splintering. The sight of a claw, an eye, bared teeth. It’s only going to take a few more goes at battering the door before the bear escapes.

Bill shouts at the others to get out immediately and they scramble for to the steps that will take them up to the deck. Bill is the last to leave and, as he does so, the bear finally smashes through the door sending splintering wood everywhere. The sound it’s making is terrifying. It heads straight for the steps just as Bill gets onto the deck, the swipe of a paw missing his leg by inches. The ashen faced sailors are joined by their comrades as they look down the hatch, the bear snarling up at them. Someone brings along a rifle and attempts to push it into another’s hands. The man refuses. As does another. And another. Soon the whole crowd around the hatch are ignoring the chaos down below, shaking their heads and remonstrating with the man with the rifle. Not one of them is prepared to shoot the animal no matter how much danger they could be in or the damage that could be done. Shoot a gift from Stalin? How would you explain that? Staring at the floor they’d all rather take their chances with the bear.

Looking at the nervous crew Bill decides there is only one solution. He slams the hatch down and locks it, trapping the bear in the hold. The reaction down below is instantaneous- those on the deck can hear the animal going beserk. This seems to last an age- the sound of a bear wrecking every single barrel in the hold. Each smashed casing and the devouring of its contents propelling it into a further frenzy. What is to be done? Nothing it seems and most of the crowd drifts away from the hatch to worry and fret while leaving Bill and a comrade to stand guard. Eventually the bawling and growling gives way to huffing, slurping and chomping. Gradually these are replaced by a whimpering, the sound of a bear dropping to the floor and a heavy wheezing. Its a while before Bill opens the hatch. When he does, he is awed by the scenes of destruction that meet his eye. Every part of the bear’s fur seems matted and drenched with honey, its eyes rolled narcotically to the back of its head and its tongue lolling out of its slavering mouth. It is lying awkwardly on its back atop the wreckage of the entire consignment. Honey oozes out across the floor and splashes the walls. Bill will always remember this sight. A miracle no one was injured. With luck, they can now keep the bear sedated, clean up the mess and fix the worst of the damage. They can deliver their gift. Stalin need never know.

I can still remember the looks my brother gave me as we sat in a Chinese restaurant listening to Dad recount this tale. We hadn’t heard him in full flow for quite some time. It was more lucid than we were used to at that point but also more bizarre. And funny too. Much funnier than my attempt. He was more like his old self. Dad, for his part, maintained it was all true and that his father, Bill, had been one the sailors. It’s since become one of the main things we remember Dad by. Somehow typical of him but also, as it was one of the last of his tales he managed relay to us, more unique than ever. In the intervening years, the only other time I heard him talk at that length and detail was when we spoke on the phone a week before he died. For years all he’d managed was, “I’m being well looked after!” before passing the receiver back to Mum. In that last conversation he spoke for half an hour about how much he loved his parents, our Mum, my brother and me and our partners before speaking beautifully about his grandson. I knew then that it wouldn’t be long and it wasn’t a surprise when my mother rang distraught later that week. That last conversation will stay with me forever. However, the memory of it doesn’t make me laugh which is what Dad was so good at and which is why I have always wanted the polar bear story to be true.

I knew that grandad did work on Soviet steamships so there was a chance it could have happened. I had his discharge book which gave me the details of the ships he sailed on and their destinations but this stopped in 1927. Anyway, the Stalin element suggests that the incident took place in the 1930s but by that time my dad had been born and Bill had a chequered career ranging from working for the Soviet Embassy to being the catering manager at Tottenham Lido. When would he have had the time to go to Leningrad to load a polar bear onto a steamship in the first place?

I knew that if I started to pull at the threads of this tale it might not hold up. In fact it might unravel completely. All the same, I thought it was worth looking into. So, last year I sent an email to the Zoological Society of London. I began by explaining the story and apologising for it being so preposterous. The email continued:

I recently uncovered lot of documents detailing my grandfathers time on the SS Koursk- a steamship transporting goods from USSR to Britain which was operated by ARCOS during the 1920s. So, I have the Russian sailor part of the story but I don’t have the polar bear part. So, my question is. How would I find out whether the USSR gave London Zoo (or similar) a polar bear during the 1920s or 1930s? Is there any further information you could give me?

There might be no proof any of this happened. My dad told a lot of stories and this was one of the best. Wish I’d asked him more about it when he was alive.

The reply I received was remarkably unfazed as though they received requests like mine all the time. On reflection, I’m sure they do. They told me it would take a few days to research as the animal records weren’t kept in the Library and they needed to check with another department. A couple of weeks later I received the following:

Dear Alan,

I have searched our animal record cards to locate the polar bear that was shipped from the Soviet Union. There was only one polar bear which seemed a possibility, but I cannot be sure that it is the polar bear that you were told about. I have attached a photograph of the record card to this email.

So, on 30th September 1935 Captain Melenkhov and the crew of the SS Stalingrad presented London Zoo with a male polar bear called Mischa. In all probability this was the bear I was looking for. I managed to find an image of Mischa fairly easily. Standing upright in the Mappin Terrace enclosure. A huge beast. One you definitely wouldn’t want to get too close to. He looks fairly benign but then look at the size of those paws and imagine the strength behind them. You know how bears are. They can turn on you just like that. Much later Mischa became a father to the much more famous Brumas -the first baby polar bear to be successfully reared in Britain and a huge hit with the public. His image adorning a seemingly endless range of memorabilia. So, this was the polar bear part of the tale- whether I’d be able to find the truth regarding its journey to England though was another matter entirely.

The SS Stalingrad, was a cargo-passenger ship built for ice navigation making regular trips across the Arctic Ocean and the North Atlantic transporting goods back and forth between Russia and the United Kingdom. That means it was more likely to sail out from Vladivostok, Murmansk and Archangel rather than the Baltic port of Leningrad. During the Second World War, while it was part of a convoy carrying munitions from the UK to Russia via Reykjavik, it was sunk by a torpedo from a German U-boat. 21 lives were lost.

However, though our grandad had served on similar vessels in the past, by 1935, having recently become a father, he was rarely at sea. Did he make it onto the SS Stalingrad at all? My brother thinks that if he made this trip it was a one off. Possibly because he could be trusted & spoke English. After all, his sister was working in Moscow, and his father was a Comintern Agent. However, I think now it’s just as likely that Bill Stewart wasn’t on the crew. That maybe he just had friends on board and that he met up with them when they docked at Surrey. That he had nothing to do with trying to calm down a raging, Stalinist bear, blitzed on honey in the middle of the Baltic but that he heard all about it later. Or, of course, he may have made the whole thing up.

That first photograph I found of Mischa had lent a little bit of credence to the story and, as I put the whole thing aside for a few months wondering how to write about it, I just accepted that Russian sailors had stored an adult polar bear in the hold. There was something I’d missed on the card from London Zoo though. Next to the category ‘Habitat’ it said ‘Born in the Artic Circle in 1935’. I only noticed that, however, once I’d found another photograph of Mischa. This time on board the SS Stalingrad on its arrival in Britain that same year.

Mischa being fed on board the SS Stalingrad shortly before he as presented as a gift to the London Zoological Society. September 1935

Of course, Mischa hadn’t been a raging beast crammed into the hold ready to burst out and attack the crew until it was overcome by a stupor brought on by its gargantuan consumption of nectar. In reality one of the crew had picked up an infant bear of considerably less terrifying stature somewhere around the Arctic Circle during the ship’s voyage. Whether it was an orphan or not I do not know but Mischa clearly became a kind of ship’s mascot and the cute little thing might have been able to give you a nasty nip but would have found smashing through a compartment door next to impossible. Evidently Captain Melenkhov wasn’t sure what should be done with it on arrival in England and so presenting it to London Zoo seemed as good an idea as any. The story wasn’t true. It was wholly exaggerated. It was nonsense.

And then I realised what the story was. And I realised why my dad came to be telling it to us just as dementia started taking hold. When Mischa arrived in London, dad was a little over two years old. The tale of the polar bear drunk on Siberian honey was simply a story told by our grandfather Bill to his son Robin. Bill hadn’t been there. He may have had only the slightest connection to the whole incident but he made it his own. It was told to enchant, to amuse and to delight. To bring the teller and the listener closer together. I remember recounting a similar story to my toddler at a visit to the Natural History Museum once as we filed past a row of stuffed bears. “Look- that’s the bear that stole Daddy’s hair,” I said, going on to invent a suitably outlandish tale which my child, now a teenager, still remembers. My dad’s story was better though and the care he took to tell it showed the care our grandad took in embellishing it in the first place and none of it is surprising as clearly we are all a ludicrously sentimental lot in our family.

When I realised the whole saga was just a story told by Bill to Robin I cried for a bit. And then I was ok.

Our grandfather, Bill Stewart, our dad in his arms, sometime in 1935 or thereabouts.

Alan Stewart.