ENTER LES ALLEMANDS
It is now half-past one, and I am back at the hotel.
At least, my watch says it is half-past one.
But all the many great gold-faced clocks in Antwerp have stopped the day
before, and their hands point mockingly to a dozen different times.
One knows that only some ghastly happening could have terrified them
into such wild mistakes.
Heart-breaking it is, as well as appalling, to see those distracted
timepieces, and their ignorance of the fatal hour.
Half-past one!
And the clocks point pathetically to eleven, or eight, or five.
Inside the great dim restaurant a pretence of lunch is going on between
the little handful of people left.
Everybody sits at one table, the chauffeur, Henri, the refugees from
Lierre, their maidservant, Jeanette, the proprietor, and his old sister,
and his two little grandchildren, and their father, the porter, and a
couple of very ugly old Belgians, who seem to belong to nobody in
particular, and have sprung from nobody knows where.
We have some stewed meat with potatoes, a rough, ill-cooked dish.
This is the first bad meal I have had in Antwerp.
But what seems extraordinary to me, is that there should be any meal at
all!
As we sit round the table in the darkness of that lurid noontide, the
dead city outside looks in through the broken windows, and there comes
over us all a tension so great that nobody can utter a word.
We are all thinking the same thing.
We are thinking with our dull, addled, clouded brains that the Germans
will be here at any minute.
And then suddenly the waiter cries out in a loud voice from across the
restaurant:
"_LES ALLEMANDS!_"
We all spring to our feet. We stand for a moment petrified.
Through the great uncurtained windows of the hotel we see one grey
figure, and then another, walking along the side-path up the Avenue de
Commerce.
"They have come!" says everyone.
After a moment's hesitation M. Claude, the proprietor, and his old
sister, move out into the street, and mechanically I, and all the others
follow as if afraid to be left alone within.