received the permitted ration of bread, sugar, bacon and other
foodstuffs. One day a woman came to her, hungry. She was a widow with
two little girls, who, before the war, had earned a good salary in
the post-office. Somehow she had managed to exist for two years, but
now there was nothing left. She was given charge of the pantry at ten
cents a day. I have seen many processions of people descending long
stairways. I shall forget them. But I shall never forget this one of
the refugees from the upper floors winding down the stairways at the
shop hour, with their pathetic plates and bowls ready for the bacon and
bread that made living possible. They could, perhaps, add vegetables
and fruit, or an egg or two, to the ration to piece out the meal.
On the lowest shelf of this miniature shop were a few dozen cans of
American corn, which even yet the people have not learned to like.
Having been brought up to regard corn in all forms as fit only for
cattle and chickens, even disaster can not convince them that it is a
proper food for man!
Later we went upstairs to visit some of the apartments. They were
bright and clean, with cheery flower-pots on all the window-sills.
Every one showed a fine appreciation of what was done for him by making
the most of all he had; an attitude quite different from that of many
less used to comfort, less intelligent, who neither hesitate to demand
charity, nor to complain of what they receive. Each family had a small,
practical stove, which served for both cooking and heating.
One family of eight was content in its two rooms. They had had a
copper shop and a pension at Dinant; were very comfortably off, when,
suddenly, Dinant was struck. All their property was in flames, men
were being shot, their own grandmother, eighty-one years old, had
her leg broken, and, terror-stricken, they fled with her up and down
hill, over rocks and through brush till they reached Namur, and
finally arrived at Brussels where they heard of Madame’s “Home.” The
grandmother, whose leg is mended but still crooked, was sitting in
front of the red geraniums at a window, knitting socks. She knits one
pair a week and receives five cents for each pair from the clothing
committee. The young girls help Madame in various ways; the father
tries to work in copper, but if he earns fifty cents a week, considers
himself lucky. The particular struggle for this family is to get eggs
for the grandmother, who can not get along on the bacon and bread.
Eggs cost ten cents each. Happily, this is a kind of situation that
“special funds” from the United States have often relieved. Everybody
was courageous, trying simply to hold on till the terrible war should
be ended and he could go back to rebuild something on the ruins of his
home.
There was another Dinant ménage next door, but a ménage for one. I
quickly read this poor woman’s story on the walls. On one was tacked a
large picture of Dinant, beautiful, smiling, winding along the river,
as in July, 1914. Above it was the photograph of her husband, shot in
August; on the other wall a handsome son in uniform. He was at the
front. She stopt peeling her potatoes to go over again those horrible
days. They had been so well-off, so happy, father, mother and son.
When they saw their city in flames, they were too bewildered, too
terror-stricken to realize what it meant. Her husband left to help
restore a bridge—he did not return. The son hurried to follow his
King; she somehow reached Brussels.
There was a fine young chap of about fifteen, whose father had been
killed at Manceau sur Sambre. He and his mother had found this haven,
but now she was in the hospital undergoing a capital operation. Madame
was trying to arrange a special diet for her on her return. They had
been in very comfortable circumstances; now everything was gone.
And so it was—the same story, and from all parts of Belgium. They had
come from Verviers, Aerschot, Dinant, from Termonde and Ypres—the
striking thing was the courage, the gentleness, the fine spirit of all.
This “Home,” as I said, has now been subsidized, but along with it
Madame still carries on another admirable work entirely on her own
responsibility. Some friends help her, but she really lives from day to
day! On the ground floor of this same building she has a restaurant,
also known only as the word passes from mouth to mouth, where any one
may come for a good dinner at noon. There is no limit to what one may
pay, but the charge is a franc, or twenty cents. The majority pay less.
It has quite the atmosphere of one of the little Paris restaurants of
the Latin quarter—two adjoining rooms bright with flowers and colored
cloths and gay china, separated from the kitchen only by screens. It
is frequented chiefly by artists and teachers, some young girls from
the shops, and a few business men. Madame does not go from table to
table as the Paris host does, greeting his guests, but they come to
her table to shake hands and chat for a minute. They linger over their
coffee—there is the general atmosphere of cheer and _bien être_. And
what this means in this time of gloom to the sixty or more who gather
there daily!
Young girls of the families of the refugees serve the meals. The cook,
herself a refugee, works for twenty francs a month.
I said any one might come, but that is, of course, not exact. Any one
may ask to come, but he must prove to Madame that he needs to come.
After he explains his situation, she has ways of checking up this
information and deciding herself whether the need is a real one. The
dinner consists of soup, a meat and vegetable dish, and dessert, with
beer or coffee.
I was looking over the meal tickets and noticed that while most of them
were unstamped (the one franc ones) a good number had distinguishing
marks. Then I learned that if a person was unable to pay a franc for
this meal, he might have it for fifteen or even ten cents, and his
ticket was stamped accordingly. I found one ticket with no stamp, but
with the “o” of “No” blotted out. This might be chance, but after
finding a half-dozen or more with this same ink blot, I suspected a
meaning. And the explanation revealed the spirit of Madame’s work.
“Yes,” she said, “there is a meaning. There are some so badly off that
they can pay nothing; to save them the pain of having to look at, and
to have others look at, a stamp registering this misery, I do not stamp
their tickets, but, since I must keep count, I blot that little ‘o,’
which at once suggests ‘zero’ to me!”
Choosing at random, I found registered for one day in July, 1916:
1 dinner at 1 franc, 10 centimes.
58 dinners at 1 franc.
43 dinners at 75 centimes (15 cents).
10 dinners at 50 centimes.
4 dinners at 0.
IX
THE CITY OF THE CARDINAL
Unquestionably the Belgian above all others the Germans would rid
themselves of if they could, is Cardinal Mercier. He is the exalted
Prince of the Church, but in the hour of decision, he stept swiftly
down and, with a ringing call to courage, took his place with the
people. Ever since that day he has helped them to stand united,
defiant, waiting the day of liberation. Others have been silenced by
imprisonment or death, but the greatest power has not dared to lay
hands on the Cardinal. He is the voice, not only of the Church, but of
Belgium heartening her children.
Malines has her cantines and soupes and ouvroirs, all the branches of
secours necessary to a city that was one of the centers of attack; but
these are not the most interesting things about Malines. It is above
all as the city of the Cardinal that she stands forth in this war. Her
“oeuvre” has been to give moral and spiritual secours, not only to her
own people, but to those of every part of Belgium.
Since under the “occupation” the press has naturally been “controlled,”
this secours has been distributed chiefly through the famous letters of
the Cardinal sent to priests to be re-read to their people. We remember
the thrill with which the first one was read in America. After the war
there will be pilgrimages to the little room where it was printed. I
had the privilege of having it shown me by that friend of the Cardinal
who was the printer of the first letter, and whose brother was at this
time a prisoner in Germany for having printed the second. The room was
much as it had been left after the search; books were still disarranged
on their shelves, papers and pamphlets heaped in confusion on the
tables. The red seals with which the Germans had closed the keyholes
had been broken, but their edges still remained. Standing in the midst
of the disarray, remembering that the owner had already been six months
in a German prison, and looking out on the shattered façade at the end
of the garden, I realized, at least partly, another moment of the war.
This quickening secours, then, is distributed chiefly by letter, but
continually by presence and speech in Malines itself, and occasionally
in other parts of the country. On the 21st of July, 1916, the
anniversary of the independence of Belgium, all Brussels knew that
the Cardinal was coming to celebrate high mass in Sainte Gudule. The
mass was to begin at 11 o’clock, but at 9.30 practically every foot of
standing-room in the vast cathedral was taken. In the dimness a great
sea of people waited patiently, silently, the arrival of their leader.
Occasionally a whispered question or rumor flashed along the nave. “He
has come!” “He has been prevented!” There was a tacit understanding
that there should be no demonstration—the Cardinal himself had ordered
it. Every one was trying to control himself, and yet, as the air grew
thicker, and others fought their way into the already packed transepts,
one felt that anything might happen! Almost every person had a bit
of green ribbon (color of hope) or an ivy leaf (symbol of endurance)
pinned to his coat. The wearing of the national colors was strictly
forbidden, but the national spirit found another way: green swiftly
replaced the orange, black and red.
We all knew that this meant trouble for Brussels, and the fact that
the shops (which had all been ordered to keep open this holiday) were
carrying on a continuous comedy at the expense of the Germans, did
not help matters. Their doors were open, to be sure, but in many, the
passage was blocked by the five or six employees who sat in stiff rows
with bows of green ribbon in their buttonholes, and indescribable
expressions on their faces. In the biggest chocolate shop, the window
display was an old pail of dirty water with a slimsy rag thrown near
it. There was no person inside but the owner, who stood beside the
cash register in dramatic and defiant attitude, smoking a pipe. There
were crowds in front of the window which displayed large photographs
of the King and Queen, draped with the American flag. Another shop had
only an enormous green bow in the window. Almost every one took some
part in the play. Not a Belgian entered a shop, and if a German was
brave enough to, he was usually made the victim of his courage. One was
delighted to serve him, but, unfortunately, peaches had advanced to ten
francs each, or something of the sort!
Finally, after an hour and a half, a priest made an announcement, which
from our distance we misunderstood. We thought he said that the mass
would be celebrated, but unfortunately not by Monseigneur, who had been
detained. A few of us worked our way, inch by inch, to the transept
door, and out into the street. There I found an excited group running
around the rear of the cathedral to the sacristy-door, and, when I
reached it, I learned the Cardinal had just passed through.
For no particular reason I waited there, and before long the door was
partly opened by an acolyte, who was apparently expecting some one.
He saw me and agreed that I might enter if I wished, for was I not an
American to whom all Belgium is open? So I slipt in and found room to
stand just behind the altar screen where all through the celebration I
could watch the face of the Cardinal—a face at once keen and tender,
strong, fearless, devout: one could read it all there. He was tall,
thin, dominating, a heroic figure, in his gorgeous scarlet vestments,
officiating at the altar of this beautiful Gothic cathedral.
The congregation remained silent, three or four fainting women were
carried out, that was all. Then the Cardinal mounted the pulpit at the
further end of the nave to deliver his message, the same message he had
been preaching for two years—they must hold themselves courageous,
unconquered, with stedfast faith in God and in their final liberation.
Tears were in the eyes of many, but there was no crying out.
From the pulpit he came back to the catafalque erected in the middle
of the nave for the Belgian soldiers dead in battle. It represented a
great raised coffin, simply and beautifully draped with Belgian flags,
veiled in crêpe. Tall, flaming candles surrounded it. As the Cardinal
approached, the dignitaries of the city, who had been occupying seats
of honor below the altar, marched solemnly down and formed a circle
about the catafalque. Then the Cardinal read the service for the dead.
The dim light of the cathedral, the sea of silent people, the memorial
coffin under the flag and lighted by tall candles, the circle of
those chosen to represent the city, the sad-faced Cardinal saying the
prayers for those who had died in defense of the flag that now covered
them—was it strange that as his voice ceased and he moved slowly
toward the sacristy-door by which he was to depart, the overwhelming
tide of emotion swept barriers, and “Vive le Roi!” “Vive Monseigneur!”
echoed once more from these ancient walls! We held our breath. Men were
pressing by me whispering, “What shall we do? We have necessity to cry
out—after two years, we _must_ cry out!” The Cardinal went straight
forward, looking neither to the right nor the left, the tears streaming
down his cheeks.
Outside, to pass from the rear of the cathedral to the Archbishop’s
palace, he was obliged to cross the road. As I turned up this road
to go back to the main portal, the crowd came surging down, arms
outthrust, running, waving handkerchiefs and canes, pushing aside the
few helpless Belgian police, quite beyond control, and shouting wildly
now, “Vive le Roi!” and “Vive Monseigneur!” I was able to struggle
free only after the gate had closed on the Cardinal.
This was the day when in times of peace all the populace brought
wreaths to the foot of the statue erected in honor of the soldiers who
died for the independence of Belgium. The Germans had placed guards in
the square and forbidden any one to go near it. So all day long throngs
of people, a constant, steady procession marched along the street
beyond, each man lifting his hat, women often their green parasols,
as soon as they came in view of their statue. All these things, I
repeat, did not help Brussels in the matter of the demonstration at the
cathedral. And a few days later a posted notice informed her that she
had been fined 1,000,000 marks!
But the people had seen their Cardinal—they had received their
spiritual secours—he had brought heavenly comfort to their hearts, put
new iron in their blood. They had dared to cry just once their loyalty
to him and to their King, and they laughed at the 1,000,000 marks!
X
THE TEACHERS
One afternoon I happened by a communal school in another crowded
quarter of Brussels, and, tho it was vacation, and I knew the principal
had been sadly overworked for two years and ought to be in the country,
I decided to knock at the bureau to see if he were in.
I had my answer in the corridor, where rows of unhappy mothers and
miserable fathers were waiting to see him. Inside there were more. He
was examining a little girl with a very bad eye; and I realized why
there could be no vacation for the principal!
As I sat there, I heard the noise of marching in the court below,
and when I asked what it was, he opened the window for me to see.
There were 720 children between six and fourteen years, gaily tramping
round and round under the trees, making their “promenade” before the 4
o’clock “repas scolaire” (school children’s repast) which the Relief
Organization is now trying to furnish to each of the 1,200,000 children
in the free schools of Belgium who may need it—incidentally at an
outlay of $2,500,000 a month.
Over 8,500 children in the sixty communal schools of Brussels proper
receive this dinner. It is quite distinct from the eleven o’clock
meal furnished at the cantines for children below normal health—they
may have both—and it is served in the school building. Naturally
the school-teachers are carrying a large share in this stupendous
undertaking.
For the children, the “repas” is the great event of the day, and,
since the vacation, they gather long before the hour. One sees, too,
hundreds of little ones on the sidewalks before the Enfants Débiles
dining-rooms, as early as 8 A.M., clutching their precious cards and
waiting already for their eleven o’clock potatoes and phosphatine.
This school is also a communal soup center, tho the teachers have
nothing to do with the distribution. Every day from 2,500 to 3,000 men
and women line up—worn, white enamel pitchers in one hand, cards in
the other, to receive the family ration of soup and bread.
As I passed one morning, I saw a little bare-legged girl sitting on a
doorstep opposite. Her mother had evidently left her to guard their
portion, and she sat huddled up against the tall, battered pitcher full
of steaming soup, her little arms tight about four round loaves—which
meant many brothers and sisters. The father was in the trenches. She
sat there, a slim, wistful little thing, guarding the soup and bread,
the picture of what war means to women and children.
Monsieur was particularly happy because he had just succeeded in
sending fifteen children, who very much needed to be built up, to the
seacoast for fifteen days. It is his hope to establish homes, in the
country so far as possible, which shall be limited to from thirty to
forty children.
He has continually to arrange, too, for the care of those who may not
be in truth orphans, but who belong to the thousands of wretched little
ones set adrift by the war. I saw one little boy who had been found all
alone in a most pitiful plight beside a gun, in one of the devastated
districts. If his parents are still living, no one has yet succeeded in
tracing them.
That morning an old uncle had begged Monsieur to take charge of his
nephew and niece; he had not a penny left, they must starve unless
something were done for them. Some months before, the father had been
wounded at the front, and the mother had foolishly hurried away to try
to reach him, leaving the children with her brother. Months had gone
by—he had had no word from any one—and now he was quite at the end of
his resources. And so it was with case after case. Something _must_ be
done!
Besides being the section kitchen and dining-room, this school has
become a social center. Every Sunday afternoon the children are invited
to gather there to have a good time. They are taught to play games,
each is given a bonbon, a simple sweet of some sort—“nothing of the
kind to encourage luxury!” They are occupied, happy, and kept off the
streets and out of homes made miserable through lack of employment.
We see, then, that “every day” means literally _every_ day, and we
realize how arduous is the task of the thousands of devoted teachers
who are standing between the war and those who would otherwise be its
victims.
And as they tell us over and over again that the one thing that makes
them able to stand is their confidence in the love and sympathy of
the United States, we begin to realize our responsibility. It is not
only that the wheat and cloth are essential, the encouragement of the
presence of even the few (forty to fifty) Americans is the _great_
necessity!
At 8.30 the next morning I visited one of the “Jardins
d’Enfants”—schools for children between two and a half and six years
of age. There were the teachers already busy in that new department of
their work—the war-food department; 460 tiny tots were being given
their first meal of the day—a cup of hot cocoa, and, during that
month, a little white bread bun. No American can understand what this
single piece of _white_ bread means to a French or Belgian child. I
am sure that if a tempting course dinner were set at one side, and a
slice of white bread at the other, he would not hesitate to choose the
bread. It is white bread that they all beg for, tho the brown war bread
made from flour milled at 82 per cent. is really very palatable, and
superior to the war bread of other countries.
A sheaf of letters sent from a school in Lille to thank the C. R. B.
director for the improved brown (not nearly white) bread gave me my
first impression of the all-importance of the color and quality of the
bread.
Amélie B. wrote:
“Before May 5, 1915, we had to eat black bread, which we preferred to
make into flowers of all sorts as souvenirs of the war! But after that
date we have had the good, light bread—so eatable. It is for this we
thank you.”
Another says:
“Since we have had the _good_ bread the happiest people are the
mothers, who before had to let their “chers petits” suffer from hunger,
because their delicate stomachs would not digest the bad, black bread.”
Further:
“The mothers of little children wept with joy and blest you, as they
went to get their good, light bread.”
One little girl wrote:
“When on the 5th of May, 1915, maman returned with the new bread, and
we all ran to taste it, we found it good. The bread we had been eating
long months had been dark and moist. Further, rice had been our daily
food. It is without doubt to show your gratitude to the French, who
went to drive the English away from you in 1783, that you have thought
to soften our suffering. Merci! Merci! Many died because of that bad
bread, and many more should have died, had you not come to our aid with
the good bread.”
Another little girl writes:
“If ever in the future America is in need, France will not forget
the good she has done and will reach a hospitable hand to her second
country, who has saved her unhappy children. It is you who have made
it possible for all mothers to give bread to their children. Without
the rice and beans, what would have become of us! You have helped us to
have coal and warm clothing against the cold. In the name of all the
mothers we thank you, and all the little children send you a great kiss
of thanks.”
The babies had all finished their cocoa and buns, so I went to the
Girls’ Technical Training School in the neighborhood. It was having
a particularly hard time because of the lack of materials and of
opportunity to sell the articles made by the children. But two
wonderful women—one the director, the other the art teacher—were
courageously fighting to keep things going.
The pupils are largely from poor families. When they were going through
the beautiful figures of their gymnasium exercise for me, I saw that
the bloomers were mostly made of odds and ends of cloth. The shoes,
too, quickly told the tale—all sorts of substitutes for leather,
patched woolen shoes or slippers, wooden soles with cloth tops, clogs.
In the room for design I was greeted with most cordial smiles as Madame
introduced me as her friend from America, the country which meant
hope to them. Then happened swiftly one of the things it is difficult
to prevent—the shouting in one breath of “Vive le Roi!” and “Vive
l’Amérique!” Who would doubt that a good part of the joy of shouting
“Vive l’Amérique” comes from the opportunity it gives them to couple
with it the cry of their hearts, “Vive la Belgique!”
By the time we returned to her bureau, Madame trusted me entirely,
and explained that this was the center of a kind of “Assistance
Discrète” she had established for her girls and their families. She
opened several cabinets, and showed me what they had made to help one
another. Certain women have been contributing materials—old garments,
bits of cloth, trimming for hats, all of which have been employed to
extraordinary advantage. What struck me most were the attractive little
babies’ shirts, made from the upper parts of worn stockings.
Madame opened a paper sack and showed me nine hard-boiled eggs that
were to be given to the weaker girls, who most needed extra nourishment
that day.
Her most precious possession was a record of the gifts of the pupils
and their friends for this “Assistance Discrète.” It is a list of
contributions of a few centimes, or a franc or two, given as thank
offerings for some blessing; oftenest for recovery from illness, or
for good news received. It showed, too, that the children had been
bringing all the potato peelings from home, to be sold as food for
cattle. Sometimes a girl brought as much as twenty-eight centimes (over
five cents) worth of peelings. But in May, 1916, the potato peelings
stopt—they were not having potatoes at home.
XI
GABRIELLE’S BABY