[Illustration]
She was a slender, graceful creature; tall, blond, highbred; so young
and so good-looking, one wondered how she was able to escape from
Belgium without unheard-of difficulties from those brutes of Germans;
but here she was, that cold February night, coming to Val Fleuri
with a pitiful handful of luggage, a great courage, and soul-racking
remembrances.
A mutual friend had months ago told me of her tragic experiences and
her keen desire to escape from the German tyranny in Belgium, so we
originated a scheme (through a Belgian consul in Switzerland) by which
she was to travel via Germany to Switzerland, thence to France where
she would sign on as a regular Red Cross nurse.
Poor girl! Her life in Namur had been so tragic, it was extraordinary
she had the courage to undertake alone a long journey, in the depth
of winter, through enemy country, going voluntarily into exile for
an indefinite period, with no one to turn to in case of trouble or
sickness, entirely dependent on her meager Red Cross pay, frcs 2.50 (50
cents) a day—board and lodging alone being provided by the hospital.
She remained a number of months in Val Fleuri as our guest, and little
by little, as her reserve wore off, the tale of the actual horror of
her life under the German yoke came out, and I was able to understand
the motive which drove her, a beautiful girl of twenty-seven, into
France, facing an unknown future and a hard present, rather than remain
a day longer than was necessary under German rule.
The only daughter of a rich and indulgent widow, until the fatal
summer of 1914, she had lived a luxurious idle life; petted by society
in Belgium for her charm and her beauty; welcomed at house parties
and balls; sought for cotillions, dinners, race-meetings; with all
that wealth and rank in the old nobility could offer to a girl of her
position, the sudden transition to the horrors of German invasion and
occupation was terrific.
When the war broke out in 1914, her mother and she were entertaining a
large house-party of fashionable young people in their chateau, some
miles out from Namur. The sudden crashing of guns broke in upon their
country pleasures, their guests fled, the shells boomed over the park
and buildings, old friends advised them, two defenseless women, to
abandon the chateau and take refuge in their large town house at Namur.
Their hearts were heavy with grief and foreboding, that August
morning, when they looked their last on their ancestral home; its
huge towers and wide terraces framed in great oaks and chestnuts,
sleeping tranquilly beneath a radiant blue sky. Ten days later their
home had been gutted from tower to basement, flames had destroyed
their furniture, pictures, family heirlooms, household treasures—all
scattered, burnt or carried off by the Huns—and, crowning insult,
German dead buried in the rose-gardens beneath the marble terrace. *
*Note. She seemed to feel this more bitterly than anything else.
[Illustration: Placarded all over the walls at Namur]
None of us in America have had our homes pillaged or destroyed, so it
is hard to realize the heart-anguish of looking on, helpless, while the
destruction of all one holds sacred is consummated; so these two lonely
women passed many gloomy hours in the town house at Namur where they
immediately installed a Red Cross hospital.
The shells boomed night and day over the town; every hour my young
friend passed through the whole building, with her servants, carrying
water, wet blankets and sticks to beat out any possible fire; six or
seven poor families from the neighbors had taken refuge in their great
house, and one could not turn them away to face the fire and bullets in
the streets, so they camped out in the kitchen and offices, hall-ways
and cellars. The Louis XVI ballroom, with its magnificent frescoes and
paneled walls, was turned into a temporary hospital, my young friend in
charge.
Fortunately, before the war, she had, like many women of rank in
Belgium, taken a course in surgical nursing, and, having passed her
examination, was fully qualified to take charge of the hospital. The
wounded during the siege were brought in from the streets, their blood
staining the marble steps of the grand escalier, and lying in pools on
the inlaid floors of the ball room. A ghastly reminder for all time of
that August, 1914! For four months they fed, sheltered and protected
36 people, not counting the wounded. The Red Cross flag over the great
portes-cocheres did not prevent the German soldiers from firing at any
imprudent person who might show themselves at the windows after dark.
The health of the widow, never robust, gave away under these
misfortunes, and early in December, 1914, the poor girl was left alone
to face her difficulties. Her country destroyed, her mother dead, the
town house a hospital, and German officers quartered in the two wings
looking on the court. Not a safe or pleasant home for a defenseless
girl. Friends of her parents advised her leaving for France, but still
she hesitated to leave what little remained of her previous happiness
to seek an unknown future in a strange land, and only a dangerous and
unpleasant incident finally decided her to take this hazardous step.
In December, curious to see the damage done by the Huns, she went
with a girl friend to visit the town of Dinant, that spot of
infamous memory, where the boches shot down civilians—men, women
and children—like dogs, and dragged their families out to see their
execution. On the tram, the girls fell into conversation with a man
who, a native of Dinant, had nearly been massacred on that fearful day
in August. He said he had been lined up with the other victims and the
order given. Shots were poured into the helpless crowd. He owed his
escape to the fact that he was in the second line and was short, the
man in front being a tall noble, who turned out to be a cousin of my
Yolande. He showed the girls a sharp, white line along the top of his
head, where the bullet had passed. He fell beneath the cousin of my
friend, who, being a large, heavy man, completely covered him. During
the night the boches came back often and fired into the dark mass, did
they see the slightest movement. All during the night the man talked in
undertones to the wounded noble, who told him to be still until dawn,
when they might hope to escape in the morning mists by swimming the
Meuse.
About 3:30 a. m., the traveler spoke to the noble, and, getting no
reply, very slowly and carefully moved his hand up to where he thought
the head was. The body had been growing heavier and heavier and he
had been saturated with a wet substance. What was his horror to find
the head had been shot away in the last volley! He waited, silent as
the dead about him, until the morning mists crept up from the river,
then wriggled out from the mass of dead, and effected his escape by
creeping down the bank and swimming the Meuse in the early dawn before
the sun rose. My poor Yolande was deeply affected by this recital. She
had known of the murder of her relative, but none of the details. On
reaching Dinant, she visited the devastated part of the town, where
some poor wretched women sought shelter under their broken roofs,
having lost everything, and not knowing where their families were
scattered, having nowhere else to go, they came back like homeless
cats, nothing but broken walls, shattered roofs and piles of plaster,
bricks, charred wood, and perhaps a chimney to show what had once
been their homes; but they came back and poked among the rubbish
with sticks, hoping to find a spoon or cooking utensil; many holding
monkey-like babies to their starved breasts, all that remained to them
of their previous families.
Sitting thus, holding their starving children to their bosoms, their
vacant faces and shrivelled forms outlined under the roofless doorways;
staring at space, they presented a truly desolate picture. My friend
spoke to them and tried to awaken and cheer them, but it was useless,
they were too far gone in misery to even understand.
This horrible spectacle of misery, combined with the story of her
relative's death, raised such hatred in her heart that, as she said,
she must have shown too plainly what she felt, for, while passing in
front of a cafe where some German officers were singing and feasting,
she suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and she and her friend were
arrested and taken to the guardhouse. When she demanded why they had
been arrested the sergeant said: "because she had cast such a look of
hatred at the officers in the cafe!" ("Un regard de hain.")
For five hours they were left sitting in the guard-room, while soldiers
came in and tried to laugh and talk to them. Finally the officer
who had them arrested came in and tried to "jolly" them. When all
his efforts were met with a frigid silence, he went to the phone.
Fortunately for Yolande, as she understood his German orders, she
immediately claimed her release as a Red Cross nurse. He would not
listen at first, but an insistent appeal to the Military Governor on
her part secured their freedom, and the two girls were turned out
at two o'clock in the morning in the soldier-infested streets of
Dinant; and, remember, this was at the height of the German invasion
of Belgium, when the whole country lay at their mercy. Had she not
understood German, it is doubtful if the girls would ever have been
seen again!
How she ever got back to Namur she never quite remembered, but this
experience determined her to leave. After much wire-pulling and family
influence, she obtained her passports, and, in company of a young
wife and three small children, they made their way across Germany to
Switzerland. Her perfect German accent and blond appearance helped them
along, but when at last they crossed the frontier their hearts were too
heavy for talk. They were safe, but at what a sacrifice.
Safely arrived in Dinard, she immediately signed on "for the war,"
and became one of the most valuable and beloved nurses. She was so
gentle and gracious, but still so firm and competent, she soon was
given charge of a whole floor (65 men of all kinds and descriptions).
I looked at her often in amazement. How that slender young woman could
make those rough men obey her! She never raised her voice or lost her
temper in all the eighteen months she was in Dinard. I never saw her
peeved, or snappy, or cross.
At that time I used to go every morning, from 9 to 12, to make a little
"extra food" or canteen for the more dangerously wounded, I had invited
a friend, the Marquise de T——— (also a Belgian), to help me. We had a
little rolling table piled high with jam, bread and butter, soup, and
a rum punch I made from Mellin's food, milk and eggs and rum, which we
took to the different wounded. The men were very fond of this punch,
but only those who were "bed cases" could have it, and then only a
glass apiece.
Amongst others, there was a huge Senegalais, an interne for some
months, who had had a number of small operations and who, just as he
was getting better, would always go out and get drunk and then was
laid up again, a perpetual blesse. One day, apparently, the Marquise
and I were innocently distributing our little dejeuner, when this
huge creature hobbled up, demanding some "Ponche." We told him it
was strictly forbidden that day. He gave a wild bellow and rushed
at us. I shall never forget that great animal, his face as black as
ink, with flashing, angry eyes, his great red mouth open and yelling
incomprehensible gibberish at us, flinging himself along on crutches,
with terrific speed, he seemed the personification of Darkest Africa.
We fled down the corridor pursued by the negro, our little table
rattling along, cups, saucers and tartines bounding out as we ran,
the precious rum punch slopping over at every step, and that great
bellowing Senegalais pounding along behind, flinging everything that
came to hand at us, even to his slippers, which he finally whipped
off as he saw us dash around the corner. Suddenly a door opened and
Yolande appeared. What she said to the monster or how she appeased him
I don't know, but after a while he went grumbling and growling back to
his room. The other soldiers said, "Vous l'avez échappé belle c'est un
mauvais caractère." (You got off easily, he has a nasty character.)
For over two years, Yolande staid on, reaping golden opinions on all
sides; her constant devotion to the wounded all day and many nights,
easing their suffering, comforting, cheering, even in the last sad
hours staying with them through the Valley of the Shadow, and going
to the funeral and the grave! I often wondered how she stood the
strain, the long tedious hours, the poor food, the cold and discomfort,
the anxiety of the operations, and then, added to all these, the
uncertainty of the future, the loneliness of exile, and the then black
outlook for Belgium!
A year ago happier times came for the dear girl. For a number of
years she had been engaged to a distinguished officer in the Belgian
diplomatic service, and last December he was able to obtain leave for
three months, and came to carry his bride off to a far-away, sunny
country.
I like to think of her, happily married to the man she has loved
so long, in a charming house of her own amidst palms, hibiscus and
tropical foliage, far-away from all the gloom and tragedy of her
war-stricken country. May all happiness and wealth and peace be hers in
this new life! She deserves them all.
December, 1917.