MATTERS BECOME COMPLICATED
Military police inspection at this period became much more stringent.
If one were walking along the street, or visiting a neighbor, or making
a sick call, he was liable to be kept under the closest surveillance.
It was not an uncommon experience in the course of a walk in the garden
to suddenly perceive the ferret-like eye of an official watching you
from a cluster of foliage nearby. As a matter of fact, we felt our
every movement was spied upon. The least infraction of the regulations
imposed by the occupying authority–and God knows the number of these
regulations; they were posted everywhere–I say the least infraction was
punished by a money fine or with a jail sentence.
It was a few days after the sinking of the Lusitania. All British
hearts felt a new bitterness. At the same time a greater feeling of
arrogance was reflected from the German mind. The Boches had unbridled
their terrorism on the seas, and they now would attempt to make their
conduct more appalling in occupied territory.
All of this stimulated our desire to leave Belgium to return to Canada.
On May 15, at 8 o’clock in the morning, I was apprised by a messenger
that my presence was wanted at the Town Hall. It was not without a
feeling of some apprehension that I made my way towards that building.
In the office of the Mayor where I was introduced, I saw the Mayor and
a non-commissioned officer. The Mayor, who was one of my friends, said,
with a significant glance towards me: “This gentleman wishes to speak
to you.”
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“You must go to Antwerp,” replied the non-commissioned officer.
“Very well,” I said, “I will go immediately on my bicycle.”
“No,” said the non-commissioned officer, “you had better leave your
bicycle here at the Town Hall. I wish you to accompany me.”
A few minutes later we arrived at the station which was transformed,
like all the other stations in the occupied country, into a military
post. The non-commissioned officer directed me to a waiting room where
there were a group of several soldiers chatting and smoking.
One of these soldiers at a word of command came forward, put on his
pointed helmet, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and simply said:
“Commen sie mit.” I was right in interpreting his remark to mean “Come
with me.” For the first time in my life I had the honor (?) of parading
along the street in the company of a disciple of Bismarck!
The people of Capellen, who knew me very well by this time, hurried
to the doors to see me pass. A few minutes afterwards we arrived in
Antwerp. I was conducted to the Bourse, a large building, which had
been struck and damaged by a bomb during the air raid of August 25.
The Germans had established in the Bourse an office for the “control
of foreigners.” I did not know of this as yet, but it was not long
before I was made aware of it. I was taken into a large room on the
door of which I had noticed the name of the officer in charge. He was
Lieut. Arnins. I ask the reader to remember this name. I shall never
forget it, nor the personage himself.
In the office was a long table with a soldier at each end; an officer,
small of stature, and with a puny face, and a non-commissioned officer,
bigger in build than his companion. The officer addressed me, speaking
with undue violence: “Sir,” said he, “you would have avoided the
annoyance of being brought here, under military escort, if you had
reported yourself, as it was your duty to do.”
“I was not aware that I had to report,” I replied.
“That’s false,” asserted the officer in a voice louder than before.
“That’s false. I have had posted in all the municipalities of the
Province of Antwerp a notice enjoining the subjects of countries at war
with Germany to report themselves before a given date. You could not
ignore this.”
“Most assuredly I was not aware of it,” I said. “Will you please tell
me where, in Capellen, you had this notice posted?”
“At the Town Hall,” the officer answered.
“Well,” I continued, “I reside at about one kilometre distant from the
Town Hall, and I have no occasion to go there.”
“It is useless for you to attempt to explain,” he declared. “You have
knowingly and wilfully avoided military supervision, and take notice
that this is a very serious offence.”
“Sir,” I replied, “when you affirm that I have avoided military
supervision, you are placing yourself in contradiction with the facts.
What you say does not conform with the truth.”
The officer jumped to his feet as if moved by a spring.
“What is that you say?” he demanded.
“Simply that I never had any intention to disobey the regulations you
have posted up,” I answered calmly.
“You take it in a rather haughty manner,” he said. “Do you think we are
not aware that you are a British subject?”
“I never thought so,” I replied.
“You are a British subject, are you not–you are a British subject?”
“You are quite right–I am a British subject.”
“It is well for you that you do not deny it.”
“Reverting to the accusation you have made against me,” I said, “let me
ask you a simple question: If it is established that the chief of the
German military police here, in Antwerp, knows me personally; if he and
I have talked together at length; if he knows my nationality and under
what circumstances I am in Belgium; why I came here; what I am doing,
and what I hope to do, will you be of the opinion still that I have
infringed the regulations knowingly and wilfully in not reporting to
this office?”
The German officer was visibly abashed. He went to the telephone
and spoke with the chief of police. He became convinced that what
I had said was true, and while not so violent as hitherto, he said,
in a haughty manner: “Well, you ought to know that in the quality
of stranger you are not allowed to go around without a card of
identification. We will give you your card and you must report yourself
here every two weeks.”
The officer had to give full vent to his wrath on somebody, so, turning
to the soldier who had remained near me, he said, brutally, “Los!” (Go!)
The soldier, poor slave, turned on his heels, struck his thighs with
his hands, looked fixedly at his superior officer, and walked hurriedly
from the room.
An hour later, and feeling really not too much annoyed by my trip, I
returned to Capellen, where I was surrounded by my family and a group
of friends all anxious to know in every detail what happened to me on
my visit to Antwerp.
Apparently I was safe. With my card I might go freely among my
patients. At the end of two weeks’ time I reported myself in Antwerp,
where my passport was examined and found to be correct.
I still was allowed to breathe, with all my lungs, the air of freedom!