that makes living possible to many of these women. We were at lunch,
when suddenly the roar of the German guns cut across our talk. We
rushed into the street, where a gesticulating crowd had already located
the five Allied aeroplanes high above us. Little white clouds dotted
the sky all about them—puffs of white smoke that marked the bursting
shrapnel. Tho the guns seemed to be firing just behind our house, we
believed we were quite out of danger. However, Marie ran to us quite
white and with her hands over her ears. “Oh, Madame!” she cried, “the
shrapnel is bursting all about the kitchen!” She had experienced it.
She had told me once that her sister had died of fright three days
after the war began, and I realized now that she probably had. Our
picturesque Léon slipt over to assure me that this was not a real
attack, but just a visit to give us hope on the second anniversary of
the beginning of the war, to tell us the Allies were thinking of us,
and that we should soon be delivered. Without doubt they would drop a
message of some sort.
I thought of our United States Minister and his proximity to the
Luxembourg railroad station. He had several times smilingly exprest
concern over that proximity.
I remembered, too, the swift answer of Monsieur ... who lives opposite
the railroad station at Mons. Bombs had just been dropt on this
station—one had fallen in front of his house, and when I asked if he
and his wife would not consider moving he replied, “Madame, our two
sons are in the trenches—should we not be ashamed to think of this as
danger?”
All the while the aeroplanes were circling and the guns were booming.
Then suddenly one of the aviators made a sensational drop to within
a few hundred meters of the Molenbeek Station, threw his bombs, and
before the guns could right themselves, regained his altitude—and
all five were off, marvelously escaping the puffs of white before and
behind them.
This was thrilling, till suddenly flashed the sickening realization of
what it really meant. The man behind the gun was doing his utmost to
kill the man in the machine. It was horrible—horrible to us.
But to Belgian wives and mothers what must it have been? As they
looked up they cried: “Is that my boy—my husband, who has come back
to his home this way? After two years, is he there? My God, can they
reach him?” The only answer was the roar of the guns, the bursting
shrapnel—and they covered their eyes.
I visited Madame ..., whose only son is in the flying corps, at her toy
factory the following day, and realized what the experience had cost
her. Her comment, however, was, “Well, now I believe I am steeled for
the next.”
Madame is accomplishing one of the finest pieces of work being done
in Belgium to-day. Before the war she had a considerable reputation
as a painter in water colors. As suddenly as it came, she found her
home emptied of sons, brothers, nephews, and she went through the
common experience of trying to construct something from the chaos of
those tragic days. Her first thought was of what must be done for the
little nephews and nieces who were left. They must be kept happy as
well as alive. And she wondered if she could not turn her painting to
use in making toys for them. Often before the war when sketching in
Flanders she had looked at the quaint old villages, full of beauty in
color and line, and felt that each was a jewel in itself and ought,
somehow, to be preserved as a whole. And suddenly she decided to try
and reproduce them in toy form for children. She drew beautiful designs
of the villages of Furnes and Dixmude, loving ones of churches that had
already been destroyed. She secured wood, began carving her houses,
trees, furniture—then arranged her villages, drawing the patterns for
the children to build from. Needless to say the nieces and nephews were
enchanted; and she worked ahead on other villages for other children.
Not very long after this she visited the Queen’s ambulance in the
palace at Brussels, and as she talked with the wounded Belgian
soldiers, the thought of the hopeless future of the mutilated ones
tormented her. It suddenly flashed over her that they might be given
hope, if they could be taught to make her beloved toys. She was
allowed to bring in models—the soldiers were interested at once—the
authorities gave her permission to teach them.
Later she secured a building in Brussels—her sister-in-law and others
of her family came to help. They wisely laid in a good supply of
beechwood in advance, got their paints and other materials ready, and
began to work with a handful of soldiers. She soon needed machines for
cutting the wood, and then found that no matter how thoroughly healed,
a man who has been terribly wounded, the equilibrium of whose body had
been destroyed by the loss of an arm or leg, or both, could not soon be
trusted with a dangerous machine—and she had to engage a few expert
workmen for this department. Girls begged to be taken in, and she added
nine to her fifty soldiers—one of them a pretty, black-haired refugee
from the north of France. The thick book with all the addresses of
applicants for work who have had to be refused, is a mute evidence of
the saddest part of this whole situation—the lack of work for those
who beg to be kept off the soup-lines.
The fortunate ones are paid by piece-work, but always the directors try
to arrange that each man shall be able to earn about 2½ francs a day.
Madame is not merely accomplishing a present palliative, but aiming at
making men self-respecting, useful members of the State for their own
and their country’s good.
XX
ANOTHER TOY FACTORY
The following day, I visited another kind of toy factory. Madame ...,
who had lost her only son early in the war, works probably in the most
inconvenient building in Brussels, which she has free of charge. She
works there all day long, every day, furnishing employment for between
30 and 40 girls, who would otherwise have to be on the soupes. I went
from one room to another, where they were busily constructing dolls,
and animals, and all sorts of fascinating toys out of bits of cotton
and woolen materials—cheap, salable toys.
This is one of the things that we must remember if we wish properly to
appreciate the work the women are doing—most of it is being carried on
in buildings that we should consider almost impossible—no elevators;
everywhere the necessity of climbing long flights of stairs; no
convenient sanitary arrangements—but nothing discourages them.
Madame began by making bouncing balls in the Belgian colors, stuffed
with a kind of moss. They cost only a few centimes, and sold as fast as
she could make them. When the order came that they were no longer to be
made in these colors, she ripped up those she had on hand, and began
new ones, omitting the black. The balls must go on. Another day all the
stuffing for her balls was requisitioned. She rushed out, up and down,
street after street, seeking a substitute, and by night the little
storeroom was filled with a kind of dry grass—and the balls could go
on.
The day of my first visit there were 6 of the 32 girls absent because
of illness. Madame said she usually had that large a percentage
out because of intestinal troubles of one sort or another. They
get desperately tired of their monotonous food, and whenever they
can scrape together a few extra pennies, they go to one of the few
chocolate shops still open and make themselves ill.
Here, too, they are looking to America. If only they could get their
toys to our markets, they could take in many who are suffering for want
of work—and one feels that America would be delighted with every toy.
It is Madame herself who designs them. She is trying always to get
something new, striking. In the C. R. B. office one day I noticed a
representative off in a corner, busy with his pencil, and found him
struggling to represent some sort of balancing bird—a suggestion for
Madame.
[Illustration: TOYS CREATED BY WOMEN OF BELGIUM]
She makes these lovely toys from the veriest scraps of cloth, old
paper, straw, with pebbles picked up from the roads for weights.
In the beginning she knew nothing at all about such work, nor did
any one of the young girls she was trying to help. But such a spirit
experiments! She ground newspapers in a meat-grinder to try to evolve
some kind of papier-mâché. She learned her processes by producing
things with her own hands, and then taught each woman as she employed
her. Thus she, too, is not only keeping her corps from the present
soup-line, but preparing a body of trained workers for the future. The
shops in Brussels sell these toys—a few have reached as far as Holland.
Everywhere in Belgium one is imprest with the facility in the handling
of color, of clay or wood. There is the most unusual feeling for
decorative effect; the tiniest children in the schools show a striking
aptitude for design and modeling, and an astonishing sense of rhythm.
One is constantly struck by this; it is a delight to hear a group of
three-year olds carrying an intricate song without accompaniment, as
they go through the figures of a dance.
XXI
THE MUTILÉS
At last I met the little Madame—all nerve, energy—a flame flashing
from one plant under her charge to the next. I had seen her whirling by
in a car, one of the two Belgian women allowed a limited pass. I had
heard how she presided over councils of men, as well as of women; that
she had won the admiration of all. With her it is not a question of how
many hours she spends; she gives literally every hour of her time. It
was especially of her work for the mutilated victims of the war that we
talked this morning. She took me to the park at Woulwe, where she has
180 men being trained in various trades.
Ten months ago she decided that one of the most important things
Belgium had to accomplish was to save its mutilated for themselves and
the State. The whole problem of the unemployment brought on by the war
was terrific. In April, 1916, over 672,000 workmen were idle. But the
mutilated soldiers formed the most heartbreaking part of this problem.
They must at once be taught trades that would fill their days and make
them self-supporting in the future.
First of all, their surroundings must be cheerful and healthy; no
cramped buildings in the city, and yet something easily accessible from
Brussels. She told me how she searched the environs until she came upon
an old, apparently deserted villa at Woulwe with beautiful spacious
grounds, orchard and vegetable garden. She quickly sought out the
owner and appealed to him to turn his property over to the “Mutilés.”
In three days a letter told her the request was granted, and within
a few hours an architect was at work on the plans. He developed a
cottage system with everything on one floor, sleeping-rooms, workrooms,
unlimited fresh air and light; the most modern sanitary equipment; and
for the workrooms, every practical arrangement possible. There is a
gymnasium with a resident physician directing the work. His duty is
one of the most difficult; it is not easy to convince the men of the
value of all the bothersome exercises he prescribes. The restoration of
the equilibrium of their broken bodies is to them often a vague end.
At first some even try to escape using the artificial arms and legs
provided them.
The cottages are grouped about the garden, under the trees, connected
by easy little paths for the lame and the blind. The old villa holds
the office, the dining-room, and a big, airy pavilion, where the men
may gather for a weekly entertainment, cards or music. A bowling alley
has been converted into the quaintest little chapel imaginable, with
the Virgin Mary and the statues of the King and Queen in very close
company, and back of them a splendid Belgian flag. Besides the regular
gatherings, the men hold special services here for their comrades dead
on the Field of Honor.
One by one new cottages are being built; more trades are being taught.
Electricity and book-binding have been added recently, and the course
for chauffeurs. The greater number of the men work in the shoe shops,
where there is one workroom for the Walloons and another for the
Flemings; but the scarcity of leather greatly hinders this important
department. In certain sections they are already using machinery
manufactured by the men themselves. And it must be kept in mind all
the time that these men before the war were almost without exception in
the fields.
Madame told us that the most cheerful workmen are the blind, who
seemed, however, most to be pitied, as they sat there weaving their
baskets and chair seats. She said that often during their weekly
entertainments the entire company would be thrown into spasms of
laughter by the sudden meowing of cats or cackling of hens in their
midst. These were the tricks of the blind men, who were as gay as
children.
The _atelier_ is truly a joyous place, set in a garden tended by
the soldiers, and inside flooded with light. The walls are covered
with models and designs. Some of the men were busy with patterns for
lace and embroidery. Others were modeling. A legless soldier, in the
trenches only a month ago, was already handling his clay with pleasure
and skill. But the most remarkable work was that of a man who had
lost his right arm. Before the war, like the others, he had been a
“cultivateur,” never conscious of a talent that under the encouragement
of a good teacher was developing astonishingly. With the pencil in his
left hand, he produced designs of leaves, flowers and animals of great
beauty.
One of the strangest, saddest sights in the world is the workroom for
artificial limbs. Here men who have lost their own arms and legs sit
constructing arms and legs for their comrades who are to lose theirs
on the battlefield. A soldier who had his right arm and all but two
fingers of his left hand shot away, was filing, hammering, and shaping
an artificial arm. A man with half of each forearm gone was able, by
means of a simple leather appliance, to make thirty-five brushes a day.
Here they were making, too, the gymnasium apparatus for the muscular
exercises which help to restore the equilibrium of their own bodies.
After visiting all the workshops, we went to one of the cheery cottage
dormitories. It was noon-time now, and the men, deciding that we were
apt to pass that way, had quickly decorated the front porch with the
flags of the Allies, daringly binding our American flag with them! Then
with a yellow sand they had written on the darker earth in front of
the cottage: “To the Welcome Ones—the Brave Allies”—(again they had
included us!) “we offer the gratitude of their soldiers!”
XXII
THE LITTLE PACKAGE
One morning in Antwerp I saw women with string bags filled with all
sorts of small packages, some with larger boxes in their arms, hurrying
toward a door over which was the sign “Le Petit Paquet”—the Little
Package. In the hallway many others were trying to decipher various
posted notices. One black-haired woman, empty bag in hand, was going
through the list marked “Kinds and quantities of food allowed in ‘Le
Petit Paquet’ for our soldiers, prisoners in Germany.”
This, then told the story—husbands and sons were in prison—wives
and mothers were here! The posted notices, the organizations within
achieved by 24 devoted women—the mountains of little brown packages
each carefully addrest, approved for contents and weight, and ready for
shipment—these connected the two sad extremes.
This morning the receiving-room was crowded, as it is every morning,
I am told. The directors had been standing back of the long counters
since 7:30; women of every class pressing along the front, depositing
their precious offerings.
Each prisoner is allowed a monthly 500-gram parcel-post package, and
a 10-pound box, which may contain, beside food, tobacco and clothing.
The permitted articles include cocoa, chocolate and coffee; tinned fish
and vegetables and soups; powdered milk and jam. Soap may be sent with
the clothing. One mother had arranged her parcels in a pair of wooden
sabots which she hoped to have passed.
Such a rush of unwrapping, weighing, re-wrapping. There seemed hardly
a moment for breathing, and yet somehow there was time to listen to
stories, to answer questions, give courage to hundreds who found in
these rooms their closest connection with their loved ones. One could
see that they were loath to go—they would have liked to stay and watch
the final wrapping and registering—to actually _see_ their tokens to
the train!
On this day there was a special gift box from Cardinal Mercier for
every prisoner from the province. Antwerp has 6,000 prisoners in
Germany, and through the offerings of relatives or friends, or of the
city itself when these fail, each one receives a permitted gift.
One sees at a glance what an enormous task the bookkeeping alone
entails—record of contents, addresses of senders, distribution,
registering of received packages, and numberless other entries. And
each month the instructions are changing, which renders the work still
more arduous.
And one is astonished over and over again at the amount of sheer
physical energy women are putting into their service. Belgium has some
40,000 prisoners in Germany. In Brussels and other cities other women
are repeating what the directors in Antwerp were doing that morning.
XXIII
THE GREEN BOX
There are seven rooms in Brussels, each with a long table in the
middle, and with rows upon rows of green wooden boxes (about the size
of a macaroni box) on shelf-racks against walls. The racks, too, are
painted the color of hope—the green which after the war might well
deserve a place with the red, orange and black, for having so greatly
comforted the people when all display of their national colors was
supprest. Each box has a hook in front from which hangs a pasteboard
card, marked with a number; it hangs there if the box is full, when
empty it is filed.
The first morning I happened in on one of these sections, I found a
director and three pretty young girls feverishly busy with hundreds
and hundreds of little paper bags. There were as many green boxes as
the table would hold, arranged before them, with scales at either end.
They were running back and forth from the pantry with a bowl or an
apronful of something, and then weighing and pouring into the bags tiny
portions of beans and chicory, salt and sugar, bacon and other things.
They weighed and poured as fast as they could and with almost joyous
satisfaction tucked the little bags one after another into the boxes.
Then they dove into the big vegetable baskets at one end of the room,
and each box was made gay with a lettuce or cauliflower. For some there
were bottles of milk, or a few precious potatoes or eggs. If the egg
chest had been gold, it could hardly have been more treasured. For a
moment it seemed the war must be a horrible dream. This was really the
day before Christmas! There were even a few red apples—as a special
surprize, some one had contributed two kilos that day. Since they
were obviously far short of enough to furnish one for each box, the
directors decided to tuck one into the box for each mother whom they
knew to have a little boy or girl. Box after box took its place on the
shelves until finally, by two o’clock, all gaps were filled, and a
curious wall-garden grew half-way up to the ceiling. It might well have
been Christmas, but actually this scene had been repeated two days a
week, week in and week out, for over two and a half years, and nobody
stops to question how many long months it must continue.
Some time before the last box was on its shelf, the first woman
with a string bag on her arm arrived. She was carefully drest,
intelligent-looking, a woman of about fifty. Later I found that before
the war she had a comfortable home, with servants and a motor-car. She
slipt quietly along the racks till she found the card with her number,
took her box from the shelf and transferred the tiny sacks and the two
eggs to her string bag. Then she placed the little packet of empty bags
and string she was returning on the table, and, after answering a few
questions about her two children, went slowly downstairs. None but the
Committee, or equally unfortunate ones who came as she did, need know
she had been there. This was Wednesday; she could come again on Friday.
Other women came, and, as the first, each could go to her box without
asking, and find the precious packages—mere mouthfuls as they seemed
to me!
I thought I smelled soup, and followed Madame ... to a little side
room where I saw chairs and a white-covered table. Her cook was just
depositing a big can of thick soup which she had been preparing
at home, and which Madame had ordered brought to the center each
distribution day. Any one who wishes may slip into this room on her way
out, sit at a dainty table, and drink a bowl of hot soup.
By half-past two the place was filled. Dozens of women were busy with
their bags and boxes, while half a dozen directors were tidying up,
storing strings and sacks, filing cards, washing utensils; there was
a most heartening atmosphere of busyness and cheerfulness. And all
the while one group was telling its story to the other and receiving
the comfort warm hearts could give. I overheard the promise of a
bed to one, or coal to another, and over and over again the “Yes,
I understand; I, too, am without news.” From all the husbands and
sons at the front no word! These women met on the ground of their
common suffering. One of the saddest of all sad things happened that
afternoon, when a mother, on seeing the lovely “unnecessary” apple,
burst into tears. For so long, so long, her little Marie had had
nothing but the ration prescribed to keep her from starving. This
mother broke down as she dropt the red apple into her bag.
These were all people who had been well-off, even comfortable, but
whose funds either suddenly, at the beginning, or gradually through
the two terrible years, had been exhausted. Mostly their men were in
the trenches; there were children or old people to care for; they had
done their utmost, but at last were forced to accept help. I wondered
how these few pitiful little bags could make any difference. The slice
of unsmoked bacon was neither so broad nor so thick as the palm of
my hand, and yet that was to be their meat and butter for three days!
In this distribution center it seemed absolutely nothing, but when I
visited the homes later I saw it was a great deal.
In Brussels there were in October, 1916, no less than 5,000 “Pauvres
Honteux” or “Ashamed Poor” (there must be many more now) being helped
through the seven sections of this “Assistance Discrète,” each of which
carries the same beautiful motto, “Donne, et tais-toi,” “Give, and be
silent.” At the very beginning of the war a great-hearted woman saw
where the chief danger of misery lay. The relief organizations would
naturally first look after the wounded, the homeless, the very poor.
Those who were accustomed to accept charity would make the earliest
demands. But what about those whose business was slowly being ruined,
whose reserves were small? What about school-teachers, artists, and
other members of professional classes? And widows living on securities
invested abroad, or children of gentle upbringing, whose fathers had
gone to the front expecting to return in three or four months? She saw
many of them starving rather than go on the soup-lines.