THE ENDLESS DAY
Years seem to have passed.
Yet it is still Thursday morning, ten o'clock.
The horror darkens.
We know the worst now. Antwerp is doomed. Nothing can save her, poor,
beautiful, stately city that has seemed to us all so utterly impregnable
all these months.
The evacuation goes on desperately, but the crowds fleeing northwards
are diminishing visibly, because some five hundred thousands have
already gone.
The great avenues, with their autumn-yellow trees and white, tall,
splendid houses, grow bare and deserted.
Over the city creeps a terrible look, an aspect so poignant, so
pathetic, that it reminds me of a dying soldier passing away in the
flower of his youth.
The very walls of the high white houses, the very flags of the stony
grey streets seem to know that Antwerp has fallen victim to a tragic
fate; her men, women, and children must desert her; her homes must stand
silent, cold and lonely, waiting for the enemy; her great hotels must
be emptied; her shops and factories must put up their shutters; all the
bright, gay, cheerful, optimistic life of this city that I have grown to
love with an indescribable tenderness during the long weeks that I have
spent within her fortified area is darkened now with despair.
Of the ultimate arrival of the Germans there is no longer any doubt,
whether they take the town on a surrender, or by bombardment, or by
assault.
I put on my hat and gloves, and go out into the streets. Oh, God! What a
golden day!
Unbearable is the glitter of this sunlight shining over the agony of a
nation!