Reflections - The Holocaust Tattoo & The Barber Shop.

When I was a kid, I used to sweep the hair in my Dad's Barber shop. I have always equated Dad's Barber shop, in the Gippsland town of Moe, with the bar from "Cheers". Dad used to advertise it as "three chairs, no waiting" and it was the kind of place where "everybody knows your name." I have many fond memories of that Barber shop as a place of rich conversation, friendship and it was a place, through which I learned a lot about the world outside my small town confines. I learned about places and people, their vocations, the lives they led, the dreams they had. 

I also learned a lot about history.

One particular day, when I was maybe eight or nine years old, an elderly gentleman - a regular - came in for his regular tidy up. Despite his thinning, silvery hair, he always requested the same - a short back and sides, and a shave. Dad's work with the cut throat razor was quite a thing to see. It is a skill that you don't often see anymore, so to watch one do it with the skill of my father - it is artistry.

Anyway, this regular. He was an impish fellow, always well dressed and he had a sparkle in his eye, as though he had a deep appreciation of the world. He was always happy. I remember he had an accent. It was lyrical - not in the manner of the Irish or Scottish or even Welsh accents, which were the ones I'd heard the most as a boy in the early 80's. It sounded very much like the accent of our then next door neighbours, Tina and Rudy, who displayed lots of crockery and dinnerware with windmills on them in their home. I was to learn that this man was from Holland. 

For pocket money back in those days, I would man the broom in the Barber shop and sweep up the hair that would fall to the foor as my father clicked his scissors against the comb. Too much hair around the base of the barber's chair was hazardous, so I always swept with a sense of urgency, making sure the linoleum floor was clear (it should be said that an 8 or 9 year old boy armed with a broom and sweeping furiously while a barber is trying to work is just as much a hazard. But I was nothing if not task oriented).

I happened to be sweeping by my Dad's leather and chrome Barber's chair as the eldrely Dutchman sat down. Having stowed his coat and hat on a hook near the waiting chair, he'd dropped into the seat, settled back with a satisfied sigh, glad to be off his feet for a little while and he rolled up his shirt sleeves. As my Dad turned and flicked a barber's cape with the flourish of a matador, I noticed a simple tattoo on the elderly gentleman's forearm. Though it was but a moment, I immediately recognized a series of numbers. 

The gentleman saw my moment of pause and my puzzled expression and he smiled. As the barber's cape floated down and around him, he jutted his arm out from underneath and he showed it to me. 

I hadn't been mistaken. I saw a faded series of numbers, etched into the tanned skin of his forearm.

Max Kaufmann shows his Dachau tattoo --- Palm Beach Daily News photo by Chris Salata.

He explained that he was a prisoner of the Germans during World War 2. I knew a little bit about World War 2 from my own grandfather, who served during that terrible conflict. The elderly gentleman before me said that he was held in a camp in Holland, before being transferred to a place called Auschwitz. I had never heard of that place before. He told me many people were taken there and were given a tattoo, just like the one he had. He told me that it was a dark place and many people had died there, but he had been rescued.

That was the first time I'd ever heard about Auschwitz, the Holocaust or the Jewish people. I sensed, even then, that I been told something important. The encounter with this man has stayed with me. It was such a fleeting moment, but from that, I explored the Second World War in depth and, in particular, the Jewish experience. 

It was around this time, that I turned my attention to writing. In a grade three creative writing class, I wrote a short piece about a war experience from a soldier's perspective. I can't be sure if that occurred around the same time as my encounter with the elderly Holocaust survivor...but I like to think that it did. 

Moments of deep learning come from places and people you might least expect. This was but one of many lessons I took from my Dad's barber shop.

DFA. 

The Victorian Trooper - A History Of Joseph Ladd Mayes.

There's a story I'm keen to tell that falls outside of my current focus as a writer of fiction. It's the story of my family's origins - at least as it relates to the Mayes side of my family. 

In the early days of the Internet, one of my first attempts at setting up a website was a somewhat potted history of the Mayes family, whose origins have been traced back to 17th century Ireland. There is some anecdotal evidence suggesting their origins can be traced further back - to the Huguenots of North Eastern France but, to date, nothing concrete has been established. 

One of the most interesting stories involves my great-great grandfather, Joseph Ladd Mayes, a man who has a not insignificant place in the history of the Victorian Police Force here in Australia. Joseph Mayes was involved in the hunt for one of Australia's most notorious criminal figures - Ned Kelly.

Edward "Ned" Kelly.

Given the time since I first attempted that website, family history research and the ability one has to reach a wider audience has grown exponentially. So I thought it would be useful to retell the story of my family origins here. In doing so, I'm hoping to make new connections and perhaps fill in the many gaps that still exist in the family story. 

What I'll present here and in subsequent posts, will remain liquid - as further information comes to hand, I'll update these entries. For now, I'll recall the details from my old website and push on. 

So, where to begin?

The town of Headford, on the western coast of Ireland, is located approximately 20 miles north of Galway on the road to Ballinrobe (County Mayo) about 2 miles east of Lough Corrib. The town and its environs are a popular fishing destination and the area is steeped in a rich archeological and monastic history. It is the site of the ruins of Ross Abbey a Franciscan friary, constructed in 1357. Lough Corrib was considered a place of reverence by the early Christian monks.

(Ross Abbey ruins, Headford Galway).

(Headford, County Galway).

My great-great grandfather Joseph Ladd Mayes was born in Headford, Ireland on the 20th January 1833, a child of market gardener Joseph Ladd Mayes (Sr). and Rebecca Lydon. It is unclear as to whether he was the youngest or oldest child - this remains a mystery.

(Joseph Ladd Mayes - my great-great grandfather - date unknown).

(Rebecca Mayes - nee Lydon - date unknown).

Not much is known of Joseph Ladd's early life as records have been almost impossible to track. One of the difficulties of Ireland's genealogical history is that due to disastrous famines that struck the country down notably the potato famine of the 1850's family records were often lost or destroyed.

What is known is that Joseph's father was a successful market gardener. My family has in it's possession, a sterling silver medal that was awarded to Joseph Sr. in 1834 at a country show in Headford for growing the best strawberries. One can only guess at the pride this simple gardener felt which possibly made an impression on young Joseph. One of Joseph's first occupations - listed when he first joined the Victorian Police in Australia years later - was that of a florist and gardener. And yet, there is evidence to suggest that young Joseph did not know his father very at all, since Joseph Sr. was reported to have died in Ireland not long after Joseph Ladd was born. The time line here is sketchy as I write this but this entry will be edited as more concrete information comes to hand.

While Joseph spent much of his early life in Headford, family's records show that Joseph and his mother (and possibly his siblings) made the decision to uproot their lives and cross the Atlantic Ocean to America in the early 1850's. The most tangible reason for this is the potato famine of the early to mid 19th century, which decimated much of the country and saw an exodus of Irish nationals to far flung countries like Australia and America. Many thousands of Irish immigrants left from bustling Irish seaports like Queenstown (Cobh) and we can guess such a seaport is where Joseph and his mother embarked on their long sea voyage.

(Ellis Island Processing Center, New York - date unknown).

(Ellis Island Processing Center - date unknown).

(Herald Square, New York City - circa 1900).

It is in New York City that reliable records of my great great grandfather can be found. It was here that Joseph met his first wife one Marrian Piquet. Marrian was an expatriate of Brassau, Switzerland the third daughter of a Churchman. There is tangible evidence that Marrian lived some of her early adult life in Boston and that she worked for the City of New York.

A certificate of marriage shows that Joseph Ladd married Marrian Piquet in New York on December 3 1855. They settled in Wilkes Barrie County and in 1857 welcomed their first child a boy named Charles. We know also that Joseph's mother died during their time in America is buried in Westchester New York. 

Whether the passing of Rebecca Mayes was a catalyst for Joseph & Mariann to reassess their life in America, one can only guess. However, sometime in those years shortly after their marriage, Joseph and Marrian took the decision to emigrate to the far flung colony of Australia.

Shipping records show that on February 22 1858 Joseph and Marrian Mayes with their infant boarded the steamer Mini Har Har and sailed for some two and a half months before arriving in the Port of Melbourne, Victoria in Australia.

In my next entry, I'll chart Joseph Ladd's beginnings in the Victorian Police Force and how his career trajectory would put him into the center of one of the most notorious periods of Victoria's history - one involving the bush-ranger Edward "Ned" Kelly.

Next: Becoming A Lawman.

DFA.