OTHER REMINISCENCES
During the years 1916 and 1917, and for the first part of 1918, Germany
possessed one god and one idol. The god was Emperor William and the
idol was Hindenburg. It will be remembered that at the outbreak of
the war Hindenburg was a retired general leading a peaceful life at
Hanover. Thence the Emperor recalled him from retirement and relative
obscurity and gave him the command of the German forces operating in
Eastern Prussia. At that time the Russians occupied part of the Baltic
Provinces. The Emperor, in examining the theses made by the different
German generals, discovered that Hindenburg, a quarter of a century
previously, had treated in his thesis the subject of an invasion of
Eastern Prussia. He then sent for Hindenburg and committed to him the
task of liberating the eastern territory from the occupation of the
Russians.
We all know that Hindenburg accomplished this task victoriously and
acquired for himself, particularly as the result of the famous battle
of Tannenberg, a fame which surpassed that of any other Prussian
general. Pressure was then brought to bear on the Emperor by his
entourage with the object of placing Hindenburg at the head of the
general staff; and, as a matter of fact, by a movement of the hand,
Emperor William dismissed Von Falkenhayn, who was at that time chief of
the general staff, and replaced him by Hindenburg.
The victory of Tannenberg was followed by several others, including
that of Rumania, and then it was that the population of Berlin, no
longer able to restrain their enthusiasm for Hindenburg, decided to
erect in his honor a colossal monument on one of the public squares.
The testimony of popular admiration took the shape of a wooden statue,
forty-one feet in height, built at the end of Victory avenue, at the
foot of the immense column known as the Victory Column, erected after
the war of 1871 to commemorate the victory of the Germans over the
French.
Opportunity was given to me on several occasions in the course of the
outings I was allowed to make during the last year of my captivity,
to observe with what veneration the people surrounded this misshapen,
inartistic monument standing in the centre of the Tiergarten. Twice
every week, as I have previously explained, I was privileged to take
a walk around the garden, under the escort of a non-commissioned
officer, and on no occasion did I neglect to walk towards this statue.
A large number of people, particularly old men and women, accompanied
by young children, crowded at the foot of the column near this immense
wooden image. They would look at it, examine it with the air of people
admiring its proportions and artistic qualities. But what was more
curious and interesting was the means adopted to collect charity
funds through this new Trojan horse. A scaffolding surrounding the
statue furnished means for all to climb to the level of the head and
contemplate from this close view the severe features of the great
general.
At the foot of the scaffolding there was installed a species of
ticket-office where one could purchase nails at a cost of one mark
each (twenty-five cents). The purchaser of a nail was handed a hammer
and accorded the privilege of driving a nail into the statue. The
children particularly showed a great love for this sport. They could
be seen crowding noisily round the ticket-office awaiting their turn,
grasping in their little hands the silver coin with which to buy the
nail. The ceremony of driving in the nail assumed a special character
of patriotism. Hence it was quite a sight to see with what pride a
child would return from performing the operation amidst the plaudits
of the old men and the mothers. In this way large sums of money were
levied and it is pertinent to say that Hindenburg was literally
riddled with nails. One could choose the particular spot wherein to
drive the nail–the feet, legs, body, arms, or head. I remember that
copper-headed nails were driven into the head, copper not being so
scarce at that period as it became afterwards.
The art reviews of Berlin never dwelt at any length on the artistic
qualities of the monument. As a matter of fact, it was an ugly object.
One day, however, a violent controversy was started in the newspapers
between two sculptors as to which of the two was the originator of this
genial idea. What an ambition!
It is no exaggeration to state that the popularity which Hindenburg
enjoyed in Germany at this epoch was greater even than the
veneration with which the Emperor himself was surrounded. Indeed,
several non-commissioned officers often told me confidentially that
Hindenburg’s popularity was very much greater than that enjoyed by the
Emperor. The ascendency Hindenburg acquired over the imagination of the
people never, in fact, ceased to disturb the mind of the Emperor. For
this reason, at each new victory achieved under Hindenburg, Wilhelm
would hasten eagerly to the battlefield and from the point where the
victory was won he would flash a telegram to the Empress with the
studied object of impressing on the minds of his subjects that his was
really the strategic genius responsible for the success achieved. So
much was this true that whenever a military operation developed itself
in favor of Germany, either in Galicia or in Rumania, we knew how to
predict, a day or two ahead, that a sensational despatch from the
Kaiser to the Empress would be published in the newspapers. Rarely were
we mistaken.
Among the prisoners of British nationality at the Stadtvogtei was one
who, on several occasions, was suspected of exaggerated sympathies for
the cause of Germany. He had become very unpopular, and many British
prisoners refused to speak to him or have anything to do with him
whatever. One day Mr. Williamson, to whom I have referred in a previous
chapter, was called into the office to receive a package of provisions
which had just arrived from England. After his package had been
examined, another parcel was offered to him with the request that he
carry it to the Englishman–the one I have referred to as being under
suspicion–whose cell was situated on the same floor as that occupied by
Williamson. The latter, who spoke a little German, formally refused to
take charge of the package, saying to the non-commissioned officer, and
in the presence of others: “I will not take the package, for I do not
wish to have anything to do with this bloody German.” Williamson then
left the office, taking with him only his own package.
The incident caused some commotion, as the non-commissioned officers
reported the unsympathetic remark made by one prisoner towards
another. On the following day all the prisoners of British nationality
were requested to go down to a cell on the ground floor, and there
the officer in charge of the prison addressed to us a very severe
remonstrance regarding the incident. I recall one remark in particular.
It was to the effect that “he did not venture to hope that we would
openly renounce our sympathies towards Great Britain, but he would not
tolerate for one instant any unkindly, disrespectful remark against
Germany.” He cited the case in particular of Mr. Williamson and also
that of Mr. Keith who, he said, was born in Germany, who had profited
from Germany’s hospitality, who had received his education in the
Public schools of the empire and who, nevertheless, every time an
occasion offered itself, manifested his antipathy towards the country
of his adoption. The officer finally menaced us with the remark that
whoever was guilty in the future of disrespectful remarks would be
severely punished.
This attitude of Officer Block created further prejudice amongst the
British prisoners, and two of them, whose names I will not mention,
organized a huge joke at his expense. Through a very clever stratagem,
one of the pass-keys was juggled from one of the non-commissioned
officers. This key would open every one of the doors inside the prison,
but it would not open the outer door. With the aid of this key the two
prisoners in question conceived the idea of unmercifully teasing the
officer.
With much difficulty we managed to smuggle into the jail a copy of
the London Daily Telegraph twice a week, in spite of an interdiction
of all English and French newspapers. Needless to say, the Telegraph
was circulated amongst all the British prisoners, and after each and
every one of us had read it, the operation was crowned as a great joke
against Officer Block himself.
By the aid of the aforesaid key, then, the door of the office would
be opened during the breakfast hour while the officer was away, or
during the closing hours of the day after he had left the jail, and the
forbidden Daily Telegraph placed on his desk.
The second time this was done the officer became very angry and placed
a non-commissioned officer at his door during his absence. This created
a little difficulty, but our friends were not to be rebuffed by such a
small matter.
As I tried to explain in a previous chapter, the section of the jail
we occupied was triangular in shape. At seven o’clock in the evening
a non-commissioned officer started to close the doors. He would first
close the doors on one side of the triangle, and after doubling the
angle he would start the operation on the second side. It was at this
moment that one of the prisoners, occupying a cell on the third side,
still open, would come surreptitiously with the famous key, open the
door of one of the locked cells, and at the same time give the key to
the occupant of the cell. He would then return hastily to his own cell.
This was done, of course, very quickly and without being seen by the
non-commissioned officer, who continued closing and locking the cells
on the third side of the triangle, and then, under the impression that
every prisoner was locked up, he would leave the jail.
In the course of the evening, or a little later, the British prisoner
having a copy of the Daily Telegraph would, with the aid of the key,
enter the office at the end of the corridor and succeed in putting the
newspaper on the desk of the officer. He would return to his cell and
his door would remain unlocked all night. On the following morning the
non-commissioned officer would start to unlock the doors, invariably
retracing the steps he had taken the previous evening. The same
prisoner, coming out from his cell in the morning, would hurry across
the side of the triangle still closed and would be handed the key from
the one who had performed the overnight operation; would turn the key
in the lock, and return to his own cell. When the non-commissioned
officer reached the last side of the triangle he would find all the
doors locked.
This stratagem was repeated for about ten days and amused all the
prisoners in the Stadtvogtei more than I can describe. The officer took
every means imaginable to catch the culprit, but, happily, he never
succeeded. Finally, when he decided to place a sentry at the door of
his office throughout the night, the owner of the key was forced to
abandon his practical joking.
Turkey was handsomely represented at the Stadtvogtei during a couple of
years; the Turk prisoners were one Raschid and the other Tager.
Raschid was a young man, about thirty-five years of age. He was
lodged in a cell on the floor above ours and there kept in solitary
confinement. He was arrested while passing through Germany, because
he, too, openly manifested his sympathies for France. Like Tager, his
compatriot, he had received a French education, and had lived in Paris
for several years. This poor Raschid, who was locked up all day long,
was not allowed to read or smoke, but several among us when apprised
of his hard lot succeeded from time to time in providing him with some
French books, cigarets and also with a little food. Professor Henri
Marteau, the celebrated French violinist, was particularly moved by the
misfortunes of Raschid. He was allowed to play the instrument in his
cell, which during the latter part of his captivity was situated on the
side of the triangle facing the cell in which Raschid was confined.
And there he would draw from his violin marvelous strains that would
send a ray of comfort to the poor Turk’s soul.
One night I was called to Raschid’s cell. He was very ill. And while
we talked together I obtained a great deal of information from him.
The conversation, being in French, was not understood by the attendant
non-commissioned officer.
Raschid believed at that time that he had been entirely forgotten
by the military authorities. He was confined for over five months
before hearing one single reason why he was so barbarously treated.
Then upwards of five months after his arrest, he was taken to the
office of Gen. Von Kessel, high commanding officer in the Steps of
Brandenburg. Raschid, with whom I talked on the day following this
interview, related the incidents of his conversation with the great
general. Von Kessel informed him that he would soon be liberated; that
he would travel by express train through the Balkans on his way to
Constantinople. The general asked him the following questions amongst
others:
“How long have you been in jail?”
“One hundred and sixty-two days,” answered Raschid.
“How long have you been in solitary confinement?”
“One hundred and sixty-two days.”
Here the general burst out laughing.
“One hundred and sixty-two days!” he exclaimed; “how is that?”
“I do not know,” replied Raschid.
“This is strange! This is strange! This is strange!” repeated the high
Prussian commander.
Without asking further information, the general sent Raschid back to
his cell. A few days later Raschid left us for better surroundings.
Tager was a man about fifty years of age, who came to Berlin provided
with a passport from the German Minister in Switzerland. He was to
return to Paris, where he resided, but one day was arrested and brought
to the Stadtvogtei. He was never told during his captivity–which lasted
four months–why he was interned. For my part, I never knew any other
reason than that he had expressed pro-French sentiments.
One day he was informed that he was to leave the jail for a French
officers’ internment camp. His departure was fixed for December 7,
1915. During his short (?) sojourn among us Tager won the esteem of the
prisoners of British nationality. I was the only one, however, to whom
he confided anything about himself. He informed me one day, in great
confidence, that he was a Great Rabbi of Turkestan. Judging by the way
he pronounced his title, one would believe that his rank in Mohammedan
countries corresponded to that of a lord in England. He entreated me
not to reveal this to anyone.
Well, the British prisoners met together in a cell and decided to
offer him a luncheon at the jail on the day of his departure. It was a
formidable enterprise.
On the day fixed, a table of fifteen plates was laid in my cell. The
plates, I need hardly remark, had to be set very close one to the
other! At one o’clock, three of us went as a delegation to bring Tager,
who did not understand what the whole thing meant.
Before luncheon, I told my British comrades that it was my intention to
“reveal” to them, when the toasts were proposed, that our guest, Tager,
was a Grand Rabbi of Turkestan, and although this title meant nothing
to me or to them, I urged that they should display great enthusiasm at
my disclosure and give Tager an ovation.
Luncheon was about to end, when I got up to propose the health of
Tager. In concluding my speech, I duly informed my friends that I was
about to create a sensation amongst them. Then, amid profound silence,
I solemnly said that I deemed it my duty, notwithstanding the natural
modesty of Mr. Tager, to reveal one of his titles to universal respect
and admiration.
“Mr. Tager,” I said, “is a Grand Rabbi of Turkestan, a fact which he
always hid from us.”
On this statement, everyone stood up and united in a loud chorus of
“bravos.” Then, according to time-honored custom, one of the party
led the popular refrain, “For he’s a jolly good-fellow.” We had
scarcely got through the first part of the song when Hufmeyer, a
non-commissioned officer, burst into my cell and called on us to stop.
He was too late, however. We had then given full vent to our enthusiasm
for Mr. Tager.
* * * * *
Liebknecht was not the only one to draw upon himself the wrath of the
military authorities in 1915, 1916, and 1917.
I shall never forget the pathetic sight presented by a worthy old
fellow who was interned with us for many months. He was Professor Franz
Mehring, a gentleman seventy-one years of age. In April, 1915, Mehring
issued a proclamation in favor of an immediate peace. The proclamation
contained not only his signature, but also those of Rosa Luxemburg and
de Ledebour. This was sufficient to merit a taste of the Stadtvogtei.
Mehring, like Borchardt, belonged to the Spartacus group. A very
learned man and a fine talker, he enabled us to spend with him many
interesting and never-to-be-forgotten hours. These names of Mehring
and Borchardt, of which I had guarded but a slight remembrance, have
become of great importance since the revolution broke out in Germany.
Mehring remained for some time in the jail. After his liberation he
became a candidate for the seat left vacant by Liebknecht at Potsdam.
He was defeated, but his subsequent candidature had a happier sequel in
his election, for another constituency, to the Prussian Diet. He was
returned by a large majority and at the time of writing is a member of
the Prussian Parliament.