More evidence relating to Clifford Orange

Clifford Orange, the Chief Aliens Officer in Jersey during the German occupation, was actively involved in compiling and submitting lists of Jews to the German authorities from 1940 through at least late 1942. Historian Paul Sanders wrote: "Nowhere is the inability to think ‘outside the box’ better demonstrated than in the negative test case of the Jersey Aliens Officer, Clifford Orange. It is a well-established fact that the overzealous Orange exceeded what the Germans demanded of him. This is plainly clear in the fact that some of the people he registered as Jews need not have been registered at all – even under the terms of the German race laws. It is unclear whether his attitude was simply unthinking, unprofessional or downright racist, but its consequence was that people were subjected to discrimination and suffering that they could have been spared. Orange’s culture of blind obedience over humanitarianism also came to the fore when he found out that some of his staff had been providing escapees in the islands with fake documents. Orange declared that he would not tolerate such activity behind his back and put an immediate stop to it."

For a previous review see:
http://tonymusings.blogspot.com/2025/08/clifford-orange-and-war-time.html

Here I examine the defense of Orange under the "hindsight" argument and argue that it is too weak to exonerate him.

Here are some additional snippets:
https://www.liberationroute.com/pois/2261/stolperstein-in-honour-of-esther-loyd

Esther Pauline Lloyd was born in London on 31 July 1906 - she arrived in Jersey three years before the German Occupation began. Esther registered as a Jew after the First Order against the Jews was passed in October 1940. In February 1943, hundreds of Islanders were deported to the continent in the second wave of deportations from the Channel Islands.

Remarkably, Esther successfully appealed against her deportation and was repatriated to Jersey on 25 April 1944. Once back in Jersey and still under German occupation, Esther made a complaint to the Bailiff and informed the Chief Registration Office, Clifford Orange, that she:

‘was Catholic on my mother’s side…I went to register at the Aliens Office at the time an order was brought out concerning Jews as I am of Jewish origin on my Grandfather’s side only, I thought at the time it concerned me but if all the facts concerning myself had been fully explained to the German authorities, there would have been no question of my being sent away’.

Esther demanded to know ‘why these facts have been suppressed and wish the matter gone into’. 

Despite Clifford’s response that registration was the sole responsibility of the individual, she was not the only Jewish resident who recalled not being offered any choice in the matter. Hedwig Bercu felt the same. 

By chance, after Liberation, Clifford met Hedwig in St Helier, apologising for his actions stating ‘I had to follow German orders’.

A Short Story for Easter: Alleluia!

A Short Story for Easter: Alleluia!

The morning was cool, and the garden still held the hush of night. Mary Magdalene walked slowly, her steps uncertain. The stone had been rolled away, and the tomb was empty. She had come with spices, ready to honour the body, but now there was nothing to prepare. The silence felt wrong, as if the world had forgotten how to mourn.

She stood near the tomb, tears slipping down her cheeks. The memory of the cross was still fresh, the final breath, the broken body. She had watched from a distance, powerless, and now even the grave had been taken from her. She turned and saw a man nearby, walking within the garden. He asked her why she was weeping.

They spoke briefly, and she answered without truly seeing him. She saw a stranger, a face she could not recognise. Who was he? Perhaps a gardener? But then he said her name. Mary. And something shifted. Her heart leapt. She looked again, and her eyes were opened. It was him. Alive. Changed, yet unmistakable. She reached out, but he stepped back gently. Not yet, he said. The time would come, but not now.

She ran to tell the others, her voice trembling with joy and confusion. Some believed her. Others did not. But the story began to spread, like light creeping across the horizon.

Later that day, two disciples walked the road to Emmaus. The path was dusty, and their hearts were heavy. A stranger joined them, asking what they discussed. They told him everything, from the hope they had once held to the sorrow that now remained. He listened, then began to speak of the scriptures, weaving together words that stirred something deep within them.

They reached their destination and invited him to stay. At supper, he took the bread, blessed it, and broke it. In that moment, their eyes were opened. They saw him. Not as a stranger, but as the risen Lord. And then he was gone.

They sat in silence for a moment, then looked at each other. Did not our hearts burn within us? they asked. They felt no fear, only wonder. They rose and returned to Jerusalem, eager to share what they had seen.

In the days that followed, others saw him too. In gardens, on roads, behind locked doors. He came not with thunder, but with peace. He spoke of forgiveness, of love stronger than death. And when he was no longer seen in flesh, he remained in signs of faith.

Now, bread and wine carry his presence. Not as memory alone, but as living truth. Faith sees what eyes cannot. The Lord is risen. Truly, he is risen indeed.

A candle is lit, its flame steady against the wind. It stands as a witness, a light for every nation. The story continues, not in tombs, but in hearts. Not in endings, but in beginnings.

And in gardens, where sorrow once walked, joy now blooms.

The Last Sacrament

Many theologians who argue for footwashing as an occasional sacrament begin with the simple but weighty fact that Jesus explicitly commands it in John 13. Unlike many symbolic actions in the Gospels, this one comes with a direct imperative: “You also ought to wash one another’s feet.” That dominical command gives the practice a sacramental gravity that exceeds ordinary liturgical gestures, even if it does not rise to the universal normativity of Baptism and Eucharist.

It is a ritual of mutual vulnerability, reversal of status, and the restoration of dignity to the overlooked. It does not merely illustrate humility or reconciliation; it performs them. The washing of feet creates a moment of embodied belonging that words alone cannot achieve, and this performative quality strengthens the case for treating it as sacramental in character.

Its occasional nature is part of its power. Footwashing is most potent when a community is fractured, when a new ministry begins, when reconciliation is needed, or when a parish must remember the heart of discipleship. Like anointing, it gains sacramental force precisely because it is not routine. It appears at moments of need, not as a weekly obligation but as a timely, grace‑bearing act.

This poem sums up that position and was also inspired by foot washing at St Martin's Church Jersey.

The Last Sacrament

He kneels down, the servant king,
As angelic choirs softly sing;
With basin full, the water clean,
We know so well this loving scene;
The water gently poured and flowed
On the feet so dusty, worn on road,
And washed so kindly, so much love,
As Spirit descending like a dove;
A new commandment, love to you
Shown in sacrament, so we knew:
No pride, no ruler come with might,
Just the washing feet reveals sight,
Of gently washing, servant king,
As angelic choirs softly sing.

1986 - 40 years ago - April- Part 1

1986 - 40 years ago - April- Part 1

March 31—April 6

THE Home Secretary, Mr Douglas Hurd, arrives in the Island for a two-day visit. In a speech to the States he reaffirms the UK Government's intention to maintain the existing constitutional arrangements between the mainland and the Channel Islands and he thanks Jersey for the contribution it will make to the UK defence budget.

The former headmistress of St Helier Girls School, Miss Gwendoline Harris, dies at Overdale Hospital, aged 68.

Centenier Peter Pearce breaks down in tears at the Town Hall after being re-elected to serve a further term in office. The incident occurs only hours after an official call for him to resign is made public because of his seven-week suspension from duty.

An elderly woman, 79-year-old Mrs Doris Collas, is killed when she is knocked over by a car as she crosses the road near Osborne Court on St Aubin's Inner Road.

The new Relief Magistrate, Advocate T. A. Dorey, makes it clear when he sits for the first time in the Police Court that offenders found guilty of assault on security officers can expect to be dealt with severely. Advocate Dorey sentences 22-year-old Thomas Coburn to two months in jail for an assault on a security officer at Funland.

There is support for the Jersey Evening Post's findings on inflated oil prices from Mr Ian Parker, the owner of the Hotel de France. Mr Parker's support for the JEP's criticism of local oil companies is based on a survey he carried out in the UK.

 

April 7-13

EARLY potatoes suffer severe damage when a severe ground frost hits the Island. It is estimated that 90 per cent of the crop is affected when temperatures at night fall to minus 8°C.

Senator Dick Shenton tables questions in the States because he says that local people seeking to buy homes are being "swamped" by essential employees who can borrow money at low rates of interest.

The Bailiff, Mr Peter Crill, suggests that Special Constables should be recruited to combat summer violence in St Helier, but senior representatives of the Honorary Police say that this is not necessary.

The Agriculture and Fisheries Committee are asked to allow 80 vergees of the foreshore at St Catherine, Grouville Bay and Le Hocq to be used for oyster farming. Agriculture's chief officer, Mr John Abraham, says that there will be talks about the issue with the Island Development Committee and Tourism.

Repairs costing £20,000 are to be carried out at Green Street car park because of signs of serious deterioration in the concrete of which it is made.

A full report into the circumstances of the death of 18-year-old Miss Trudy Sargent are called for at the General Hospital. Miss Sargent's parents, who live in Sheffield, consider suing over their daughter's death because they allege she was refused admission to the hospital even though she was very ill with meningitis.

“Not My Thing” — A Maundy Thursday Encounter

This dialogue was written in 2025, and I wanted to reflect how washing feet takes some clergy out of their comfort zone, and yet Pope Francis went to prisons to wash feet, including the feet of 12 women.

In 2024, as Pope Francis poured water over their feet, dried them with a towel and kissed their feet, 12 women inmates at Rome's Rebibbia prison wept.... By washing his disciples' feet, Jesus humbles himself, the pope said. "With this gesture, he makes us understand what he had said, 'I came not to be served but to serve.' He teaches us the path of service."

"Not My Thing" — A Maundy Thursday Encounter

Setting: A dimly lit chancel. Candles flicker along the altar rail. The congregation has gone home. The vicar, Rev. Joel, is tidying up the communion vessels. Suddenly, a figure appears in the doorway—barefoot, robe dusty, eyes radiant.

Jesus:
You kept the table.

Rev. Joel (startled):
I—yes. We shared bread and wine. The sermon was strong. People were moved.

Jesus (stepping forward):
And the basin?

Rev. Joel (hesitating):
Ah. No basin this year. I’ve never really connected with that part. It’s not… my thing.

Jesus (gently):
Not your thing.
Yet it was mine.

Rev. Joel (defensive):
I mean—it’s symbolic, isn’t it? We talked about service. I preached John 13. The theology was solid.

Jesus (kneeling beside the empty credence table):
I didn’t preach it. I did it.
I bent low. I touched the dust.
I washed what others ignored.

Rev. Joel (softening):
I know. But people feel awkward. Some don’t want their feet touched. It’s messy. Vulnerable.

Jesus (looking up):
Exactly.
It’s the awkwardness that makes it holy.
The vulnerability that makes it mine.

Rev. Joel:
I’m trying to build something here. The parish was struggling. I’ve brought energy, music, young families. We’re growing again.

Jesus (rising):
Growth is good.
But what grows when the least are left unwashed?

Rev. Joel (quietly):
I didn’t mean to exclude anyone.

Jesus (walking slowly to the font):
There was a woman tonight—hard of hearing. She watched the liturgy unfold, lips moving, gestures unclear.
She longed for touch.
Not performance.
Not polish.
Just presence.

Rev. Joel (voice cracking):
I didn’t see her.

Jesus (placing hand on the font rim):
She saw you.
And she wondered if the water had dried up.

Rev. Joel:
I thought I was making it more accessible. Less pressure. Less discomfort.

Jesus:
Comfort is not the command.
Love is.
And love kneels.

Rev. Joel (sitting on the front pew):
I didn’t know how to do it well.
I feared doing it wrong.

Jesus (sitting beside him):
Then do it broken.
Do it clumsy.
Do it with trembling hands.
But do it.

Rev. Joel (tears forming):
Would you show me?

Jesus (smiling):
I already did.
But I’ll show you again.

[Jesus walks to the sacristy and returns with a small basin and towel. He places them at the vicar’s feet.]

Jesus:
Start here.
Not with the perfect liturgy.
Not with the clever sermon.
Start with the feet.
Start with the ones who feel unseen.
Start with the water.

Rev. Joel (removing his shoes):
I’m not ready.

Jesus (kneeling):
Neither were they.
But I washed them anyway.

[He begins to wash Joel’s feet—slowly, reverently. The silence is thick with grace.]

Jesus (as he dries the feet):
Next year, let the basin speak.
Let the water do the preaching.
Let the towel be your theology.

Rev. Joel (whispering):
I will.

Jesus (rising, preparing to leave):
Then I’ll see you at the basin.

Wreck resurfaces at Corbiere

The recent stormy weather has loosened an old shipwreck from the sea bed. Go to Corbiere to see it. It is amazing!

Jersey Gazette, 14th October 1837

"A grievous wreck hath occurred off La Corbière: the brig Celestine, bound from Lisbon, was dashed upon the rocks in tempestuous seas. All hands perished. The lighthouse keepers report timbers strewn and sails rent asunder."

A Short Story: Faith and the Margins

Faith and the Margins

A salt‑stained wind moved in from the Channel as the congregation filed out of St Anne’s, the little flint‑and‑cream church perched above the harbour in Trewissick. 

It was late summer in 1996 in Cornwall, the sort of Sunday when the hymn boards still smelled faintly of polish and the cassette player in the vestry wheezed its way through the final bars of “Be Thou My Vision.”

The Reverend Margaret Ellison had preached with her usual soft, earnest cadence. Near the end she had leaned forward over the pulpit, hands resting on the green felt edge, and offered the lines she had been polishing all week:

“So if you’re feeling a bit marginalised for whatever reason, or you know people who are, know that Jesus’ love reaches that far. Jesus’ love reaches infinitely far. Not only that, but we often see that Jesus has got a particular soft spot for those on the edge.”

People nodded. A few dabbed their eyes. The churchwarden whispered that it was “one of her better ones.” Margaret smiled, receiving the praise as though it were a warm shawl.

But in the porch, as the last hymn sheets were being gathered, she spotted Ruth Harding waiting for her. Ruth, once a lively lay reader, now walked with a stick after a stroke the previous winter. Her speech was slower, her right hand curled inward like a sleeping bird.

“Margaret,” Ruth said, “I wondered if I might help again with the midweek service. Even just reading the intercessions. I miss it terribly.”

Margaret’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. She glanced at her watch, an old digital Casio whose beeps always sounded too loud in the vestry.

“Oh, Ruth… I’m so terribly busy these days. The parish council, the youth group, the new stewardship campaign. I simply can’t take on the extra burden of supporting you in ministry right now. It would be too much for me.” She touched Ruth’s arm lightly, as if that softened the words. “Perhaps it’s best if you step back for the time being.”

Ruth nodded, though her eyes clouded. She turned away slowly, the rubber tip of her stick tapping the stone floor like a metronome.

Inside, the lay reader, Peter Lacey, was folding his notes for next Sunday’s sermon. He had laid out his cassock and surplice on a chair, brushing off a few stray threads.

Margaret paused in the doorway. “Peter, I meant to say, don’t wear robes next week.”

He looked up, startled. “Not wear? But I always do when preaching.”

“Yes, well,” she said, smoothing her skirt, “I don’t believe in all that dressing up. It distracts people. Just come as you are. A jumper and trousers will do perfectly well.”

Peter hesitated, then nodded, folding the cassock away with a care that made the fabric seem suddenly fragile.

Outside, the gulls wheeled over the harbour, their cries sharp against the hum of a distant ice‑cream van playing its high-pitched, electronic chime version of “Greensleeves.” It was a first warning to children to run for their pocket money to buy Mr Whippy. Holidaymakers wandered leisurely along the promenade, unaware of the small fractures forming inside the parish that prided itself on welcome.

Margaret locked the vestry door and walked briskly toward the vicarage, her sermon notes tucked under her arm. The words she had spoken from the pulpit still rang in the air behind her, warm and expansive.

But the wind carried other truths too, quieter, more uncomfortable ones, drifting like sea mist through the narrow lanes of the Cornish seaside town, waiting for someone to notice.