[1] All numerals throughout this volume relate to the stories herein
told--not to chapters in the original sources.
"TO RUHLEBEN--AND BACK"--LIFE IN A GERMAN PRISON
_Where the British Civilian Prisoners Are Held in Detention Camp_
_Told by Geoffrey Pyke, an English Prisoner_
This is a picturesque and thrilling story of a real adventure.
The author, a young Englishman, entered Germany at the outbreak
of the War, was discovered, imprisoned, and transferred to the
great detention camp at Ruhleben. Here he made one of the most
marvelous escapes on record, and after undreamed-of dangers and
hardships arrived in safety at the Dutch front. Mr. Pyke in
relating his experience says: "I was caught up in a vast mechanism
... that bounds the German Empire and tossed from one part to
another, was beaten, crushed, and hammered ... the machine took
me and threw me in jail, and then in another jail, and then in
another, and then back into the first. Finally vomiting me, in a
fit of either weariness, mercy or disgust, into a concentration
camp for untrained civilians." Finally escaping from Ruhleben on
July 9th, 1915. "Had only the 4,500 other inhabitants of Ruhleben
escaped at the same time, in a species of general stampede, and
one or two other people in Berlin or elsewhere died or been called
off, matters might have arranged themselves very satisfactorily."
The escaped prisoner has collected his experiences into a volume
entitled: "To Ruhleben--And Back," from which we present a single
chapter by permission of his publishers, _Houghton, Mifflin and
Company_.
[2] I--HERR DIREKTOR OF THE PRISON
I forget now how many times I saw the Direktor of the prison, though
at the time, the days on which I did were as distinct to me as wounds,
which a man cannot see, but which he knows individually and intimately.
In order to obtain audience of this gentleman, it was necessary, when
the warder unlocked the door at 6.30 and the pitchers were put out,
to ask to see the Herr Direktor. At half-past nine you were taken
out of the cell, let through the door at the end down one flight and
through to the floor which you could see over the railings of the
balcony. Here again you were put into a cell, and the door was locked,
and time passed by. Nothing else happened. In half an hour, or an
hour, you were lined up in the passage with any others who also had
requests. One by one you would go into that little office. You would
bow at the entrance. "Ja?" would remark the bald-headed old gray-beard,
with an Iron Cross of '70 hanging from his coat. "Ja?" And you would
state your request. A vast ledger opposite him, the old bird, for he
looked exactly like the Jackdaw of Rheims, would enter and sign and
countersign in it. His decision was given in a curt "_Ja_" or "_Nein_,"
or "_Das geht nicht_,"[3] and you would be standing in the line
outside, among those whose chance had not yet come. You had succeeded;
you had failed--who knows what luck would attend you on these
expeditions. Every request to write a letter had to be made in this
manner. The shiny-headed old bird, with the head jailer in attendance
his hand stiffly at his sword, would enter your name, the name of the
addressee, and the reason for writing it, in his vast ledger. "_Ja?
Nein. Das geht nicht_," and it is all over. Time after time I craved
permission to write to His Excellency the American Ambassador, to
request him to tell my people at home that I was alive. It was granted
at the third request. What agony were those mornings, pacing up and
down in the cell downstairs, waiting to be put into line. What could I
say to the old boy to persuade him? Hundreds of passionate words rose
in my mind, as I paced up and down that cell, waiting for the moment.
"_Bitte, Herr Direktor, kann ich ein brief schreiben?_"[4] was all that
I could stammer out, almost before I had reached the threshold of his
office. "_Ja? Nein. Das geht nicht_," and I, after staring at him with
eyes like a rabbit's fastened on a snake, unable to find words to say
more, aching with the dull misery of refusal, have passed away, giving
place to someone else who, in his turn, also succeeds or fails.
I used to try once a fortnight, and though I have since discovered that
even the letters I wrote were never sent, yet nevertheless I always had
a hope of their getting through. Regularly as clockwork every other
Monday, after the Hell of Sunday, I would request to see the Direktor.
For the first ten weeks, I persevered in this. Then suddenly I began to
go to pieces. I missed one Monday, and put off asking the old bald-pate
until Tuesday. When the moment came round on the Tuesday morning,
I funked again. Wednesday came, and again I funked. On Thursday, I
managed to push the words asking to see the Direktor from between my
lips. Then with a rush, realising there was no going back, I felt all
courage return to me. My head became as clear as a bell, and arguments
to meet every objection of the Direktor's came to my mind. He had
let me write several times previously, and I had not troubled him
now for seventeen days. I was confident. Again I repeated my request
gently to myself.... Suddenly I realised I was standing before him,
and that I must speak. I must say something. I had come there to say
something. Unless I asked him something, he would say I was not to be
brought before him again. My eyes fixed on the large pimple on the
top of his head. I could not take them away. The pimple was not quite
in the centre of the cranium, but occupied, so to speak, the position
halfway betwixt centre-forward and right outside. He wore it where a
comedian wears a top hat the size of a five-shilling bit in attempts
to be funny. My thoughts followed it. It was unique, and magnificent.
"Have YOU any superfluous hair?" I thought. I should love to breathe
very gently on the shiny surface, just to see if it becomes misty, or
whether it still shines through everything. I wondered if it was very
sensitive, so sensitive that he could feel what was reflected in it,
or whether it was pachydermatous, and safe to dig pins into. He was
going to move. He was just finishing off the entry he was making in the
ledger. He was going to look up at me and say, "Ja wohl?"--Speak, say
something--speak--speak....
It was evening. I was in my cell. The light was fading fast. I was
thinking how on the morrow I would try again, how it only needed
careful preparation, and I should be as able as anybody to say what I
wanted to,--to speak.