CHRISTMAS IN COLOGNE
_Xmas 1919_
Christmas-time in Germany! I am haunted by the recollection of the
beautiful passage in Mr. Clutton Brock’s _Thoughts on the War_, a book
which many of us read when no improbability seemed greater than that
of spending Christmas in Cologne in the wake of a British Army of
Occupation: “Forget for a moment the war and wasted Belgium and the
ruins of Rheims Cathedral, and think of Germany and all that she means
to the mind among the nations of Europe. She means cradle songs and
fairy stories and Christmas in old moonlit towns, and a queer, simple
tenderness always childish and musical with philosophers who could
forget the world in thought like children that play, and musicians who
could laugh suddenly like children through all their profundities of
sound.”
In this same essay Mr. Clutton Brock goes on to say how these Germans
of the past were always spoken of as “the good Germans,” and the world
admired their innocence and imposed upon it. Finally they grew tired of
being imposed upon, so they determined to put off their childishness
and take their place among the strong nations of the world. What the
consequences of that change of attitude have been we all know too
well. The good Germans--the simple people who were bullied by their
neighbours till they made up their minds to be clever and worldly! If
this be the right reading of history, what an immeasurable weight is
added to the whole tragedy of the war.
It is to that older, more homely Germany one’s thoughts turn at
Christmastide. Our Christmas customs are largely German in origin.
Christmas trees and candles, Santa Claus with his bag of gifts--all
these things are in full swing here. Which of us as a child has not
thrilled over _Grimm’s Fairy Tales_? And German toys! Not for a moment
would patriotism allow us to confess it, but at heart we know we have
missed, and continue to miss very badly, the tin soldiers and other
varied delights which in old days reached us from the Fatherland.
Cologne before Christmas was placarded by a German peace society,
begging parents not to rouse military instincts in their children by
giving them tin soldiers. The notice was a curious illustration of the
many varied opinions surging upwards in Germany to-day, none of which
would have dared to find expression under the old régime. But Germany
has certainly not disowned its militarism up to the point of perfection
aimed at by the enthusiasts of the peace society in question. The
Cologne community as a whole made merry over this appeal, and certainly
the sale of tin soldiers in the shops did not seem to be affected by
it. Never were toy shops so enchanting and fascinating as those of
the Höhe Strasse and the Breite Strasse in their Christmas finery.
I flattened my nose forlornly against the plate-glass windows, and
mourned over the fact that the total of summers and winters standing to
my account removed these delights beyond my reach. Troops of excited
children flocked in and round the shops, but for many a German child
the matter ended there. Whatever benefits we English may gain by a low
exchange, the price of toys in marks this winter makes them prohibitive
to all except the well-to-do and the “Schiebers,” the expressive name
for profiteers.
The German child normally is in a stronger position about Christmas
than the English child, for in this country there are two great
days for presents and festivities. Early in December arrives St.
Nicholas, bringing with him cakes and nuts and sweets. His visits are
paid, of course, during the night, and shoes and stockings are, with
the hopefulness of youth, left by the bedside for him to fill. On
Christmas Day is the Christmas tree with further cakes and presents and
delights. German brutality is always difficult to understand in view
of the position held by the children and the obvious wealth of care
and affection lavished on them. For in even greater measure than in
England is Christmas the children’s feast. During the holiday season
the affairs of their elders are temporarily suspended, while the
latter devote themselves to a round of juvenile gaiety and amusement.
Children’s plays appear at the theatre, even the Opera House abandons
Mozart and Wagner and gives special performances of _Hänsel und Gretel_
for the benefit of juvenile audiences.
I have no recollection of Germany more pleasant than that of the Opera
House filled in Christmas week with a crowd of excited children come
to listen to Humperdinck’s delightful play. The white frocks filled
stalls and boxes like petals of a great bouquet. Large bows of ribbon
on the fair heads fluttered like banners in a breeze as the adventures
of Hänsel and Gretel and the witch were followed with shrieks of
excitement. On one side of me sat a little English girl, holding on
tight to her chair so as not to spring out of it altogether; on the
other, a little German girl, with a hand thrust firmly into her mouth
in order to secure some measure of silence. But as the adventures
of the play deepened, the situation proved too much for my small
neighbour, who flung herself finally with cries of excitement into
her mother’s arms. I envied the actors their audience. It must have
been a joy to play in an atmosphere of such entire appreciation. When
the culminating moment is reached, and clever Hänsel pops the wicked
witch into the oven destined for the children, squeals of joy broke
out all over the theatre: squeals only to be renewed in intensity
when the oven door was reopened and the witch brought out cooked and
browned in the shape of an enormous gingerbread. Let us be thankful
for the unconsciousness of childhood, keeping alive in the world great
treasures of joy and laughter, when the grim realities of post-war
Europe oppress our souls.
But if the toy shops and the theatres and the excitement of the
children leave nothing to be desired, the weather has refused to play.
Never can I remember so damp and dripping and sodden a Christmas.
Our cold snap came in November. Then for a brief space we had frosts
and red sunsets: those pre-Christmas sunsets when the German mother
with a quaint materialism tells her children that “das Christ-kind
bäckt”--the Christ Child is baking cakes for Christmas. But there was
little baking this year on the part of the Christ Child. Fog and rain
enveloped Cologne for days beforehand in a damp and dripping mantle. In
a foreign land I found myself missing the hundred and one small duties
which at home have to be carried out at Christmas. It is dull work
ordering your presents by post. Even so it was all done, and unless
I went out in the wet and looked at the toy shops there was nothing
to show Christmas was at hand. Finally I was struck by a bright idea.
Why shouldn’t we have a Christmas tree? Yes, and presents for the
household, including the cross cook. Peace has been signed, and it is
the season of peace and goodwill: so why not?
First of all I sounded Maria--this was before the days of the
good-tempered Clara. Why shouldn’t we have a Christmas tree--every
other house in the street was getting ready for one? Maria’s eyes
glistened: she had had no Christmas tree since the war, to see one
again would be a joy indeed. Yes, most certainly she would undertake to
buy a suitable tree if I wanted one. My next business was to sound our
Frau. She too lent a favourable ear to my proposal. No, they had had no
Christmas tree since the war, but it would be pleasant to begin again.
She had plenty of decorations and candle-holders and would be glad to
lend them to me. Madame was as good as her word, and produced boxes of
crystal balls and coloured tinsels and a solid wood block into which
the tree could be fixed. Throughout a wet and gloomy afternoon Maria
and I saw to the decorations, and on Christmas Eve the tree was lit
up and our mixed household held a short and curious gathering in the
dining-room.
Whatever faults may be urged against the Germans, they are certainly
not lacking in a considerable measure of personal dignity. The
attitude of our Frau and her maids was everything that was correct.
They received their small gifts with pleasure and praised the English
Christmas cake, slices of which were handed round. We exchanged
greetings and good wishes for Christmas and the coming year, and
the tree with its candles and tinsel bravery was an object of much
admiration. But could the inner thoughts of any one of us in the room
have been revealed, how strange and painful must the texture have
proved!
Of one thing I am certain: the surface of courtesy and amenity
between us and our foes has to be restored little by little if we are
aiming at a future, however distant, purged of hatred and revenge.
The first tentative experiments can only be made between individuals
whose circumstances have flung them, like our Madame and ourselves,
into a personal relationship which is not unfriendly. As I have said
elsewhere, it is easy to hate the abstraction called Germany, but for
individual Germans one feels either like, dislike, or indifference the
same as for other people. But the growth of a better understanding is
likely to be slow and laborious. Even when individuals as individuals
do not hate each other, events have dug a chasm between the two
nations. The Germans are so curiously insensitive, it is always
difficult to realise if they feel things as we should feel them
ourselves. But the three German women who had had no Christmas tree
since the war and now were looking at a Christmas tree provided by an
English woman--what did the situation mean for them? Though obviously
pleased with their gifts and the little ceremony, the khaki uniforms
in the room spoke of conquest, defeat, overthrow. And for us too there
came a flood of memories, memories of friends lost, of young lives cut
down in their prime, of homes in England left stricken and empty this
Christmastide because the monstrous ambitions of Germany’s rulers would
have it so. And even as we talked and exchanged the old Christmas
messages of peace and drank each other’s health, the room and the tree
and the candles all seemed to vanish, and in their place I saw the grey
desolation and havoc of Flanders, lines of dim figures advancing to
attack, rows of graves, silent, mournful.
But if these things are not to have their repetition in a future still
more awful than the present we have known, somehow, some way, men must
learn the message of Christmas, hard though it be in our distracted
world, “Peace on earth, goodwill towards men.” But for once in a way
the Revised Version has stepped in with a deeper, more beautiful
meaning than that of the old familiar words, “Peace on earth to men
of good will.” Peace is not a casual condition. It does not arise
automatically when the roar of cannon dies away. It implies effort,
sacrifice, and consistent spiritual purpose. Treaties and protocols
cannot secure it; without goodwill peace is stillborn. We went through
the trials of the war with a high heart and a great endurance. Are our
hearts high enough for the final adventure of goodwill?