A SAFE SHELTER
Next morning at ten o'clock, Lenore and I and the ever-faithful Henri
(carrying my parrot, if you please!) and Ada strolled with affected
nonchalance through the Antwerp streets where a pale gold sun was
shining on the ruins.
Germans were everywhere. Some were buying postcards, some sausages.
Motor cars dashed in and out full of grey or blue uniforms. Fair, grave,
sardonic faces were to be seen now, where only a few brief days ago
there had been naught but Belgians' brave eyes, and lively, tender
physiognomy. Our little party was silent, depressed. I wore a
handkerchief over my head, tied beneath my chin, a big black apron, and
a white shawl, and I kept my arm inside Henri's.
"Voici, Madame," he exclaimed suddenly. "Voilà les Anglais."
"Et les Anglaises," gasped Ada under her breath.
We were just then crossing the Avenue de Kaiser--that once gay, bright
Belgian Avenue where I had so often walked with Alice, my dear little
_Liègeoise_, now fled, alas, I knew not where.
A procession was passing between the long lines of fading acacias. A
huge waggon, some mounted Germans, two women.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" says Ada.
Lying on sacks in the open waggon are wounded English officers, their
eyes shut.
And trudging on foot behind the waggon, with an indescribable
steadfastness and courage, is an English nurse in her blue uniform, and
a tall, thin, erect English lady, with grey hair and a sweet face under
a wide black hat.
"They are taking them to Germany!" whispers Henri in my ear.
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" moans Ada under her breath. "Oh, les pauvres
Anglaises!"
It was all I could do to keep from flying towards them.
An awful longing came over me to speak to them, to sympathise, to do
something, anything to help them, there alone among the Germans. It was
the call of one's race, of one's blood, of one's country. But it was
madness. I must stand still. To speak to them might mean bad things for
all of us.
And even as I thought of that, the group vanished round the corner,
towards the station.
As we walked along we examined the City. Ah, how shocking was the
change! People are wont to say of Antwerp that it was very little
damaged. But in truth it suffered horribly, far beyond what anyone who
has not seen it can believe. The burning streets were still on fire. The
water supply was still cut off. The burning had continued ever since
the bombardment. I looked at the Hotel St. Antoine and shivered. A few
days ago Sir Frederick Greville and Lady Greville of the British Embassy
had been installed in that hotel and countless Belgian Ministers. The
Germans had tried hard to shell it, but their shells had fallen across
the road instead. All the opposite side of the street lay flat on the
ground, smouldering, and smoking, in heaps of spread-out burning ruins.
At last we reached the house for which I had the key.
From the outside it was dignified, handsome, thoroughly Belgian,
standing in a street of many ruined houses.
Trembling, I put the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed open the
door. Then I gasped. "Open Sesame" indeed! For there, stretching before
me, was a magnificent hall, richly carpeted, with broad, low marble
stairs leading upwards on either side to strangely-constructed open
apartments lined with rare books, and china, and silver. We crept in,
and shut the door behind us. Moving about the luxurious rooms and
corridors, with bated breath, on tip-toe we explored. No fairy tale
could reveal greater wonders. Here was a superb mansion stocked for six
months' siege! In the cellars were huge cases of white wines, and red
wines, and mineral waters galore. In the pantries we found hundreds of
tins of sardines, salmon, herrings, beef, mutton, asparagus, corn, and
huge bags of flour, boxes of biscuits, boxes of salt, sugar, pepper,
porridge, jams, potatoes. At the back was a garden, full of great trees,
and grass, and flowers, with white roses on the rose-bush.
Agreeable as was the sight, there was yet something infinitely touching
in this beautiful silent home, deserted by its owners, who, secure in
the impregnability of Antwerp, had provided themselves for a six months'
siege, and then, at the last moment, their hopes crushed, had fled,
leaving furniture, clothes, food, wines, everything, just for dear
life's sake.
Tender-hearted Ada wept continually as she moved about.
"Oh, the poor thing!" she sighed every now and then. And forgetting
herself and her own grief, her angel heart would overflow with
compassion for these people whom she had never seen, never heard of
until now.
For the first time for days I felt safe, and when Lenore (Madame X.) and
her husband promised to come and stay there with me, and bring Jeanette
and the old grandmère from the hospital I was greatly relieved. In fact
if it had not been for the Danish Doctor I should have been quite happy.
They all came in that afternoon, and Henri too, and how grateful they
were to get into that nest.
We quickly decided to use only the kitchen, and Lenore and her husband
shewed such a respect for the beauties of the house, that I knew I had
done right in bringing the poor refugees here.
Through the barred kitchen windows, from behind the window curtains, we
watched the endless rush of the German machinery. Occasionally Germans
would come and knock at the door, and Lenore would go and answer it.
When they found the house was occupied they immediately went away.
So I had the satisfaction of knowing that I was saving that house from
the Huns.
The haunted noontide silence of my solitary walk seemed like a dream
now. Noise without end went on. All day long the Germans were rushing
their machineries through the Chaussée de Malines, or Rue Lamarinière,
or along the Avenue de Kaiser. At some of the monsters that went
grinding along one stared, gasping, realising for the first time what
_les petits Belges_ had been up against when they had pitted courage and
honour and love of liberty against machinery like that. Three days
afterwards along the road from Lierre two big guns moved on locomotives
towards Aerschot, suggesting by their vastness that immense mountain
peaks were journeying across a landscape. I felt physically ill when I
saw the size of them. A hundred and fifty portable kitchens ensconced in
motor cars also passed through the town, explaining practically why all
the Germans look so remarkably well-fed. Motor cycles fitted with
wireless telegraphy, motor loads of boats in sections, air-sheds in
sections, and trams in sections dashed by eternally. The swift rush of
motor cars seemed never to end.
Yet, busy as the Germans were, and feverishly concentrated on their new
activities, they still found time to carry out their system as applied
to their endeavours to win the Belgian people's confidence in their
kindness and justice as Conquerors! They paid for everything they
bought, food, lodging, drink, everything. They asked for things gently,
even humbly. They never grumbled if they were kept waiting. They patted
the children's heads. Over and over again I heard them saying the same
thing to anybody who would listen.
"We love you Belgians! We _know_ how brave you are. We only wanted to go
through Belgium. We would never have hurt it. And we would have paid you
for any damage we did. We don't hate the French either. They are '_bons
soldats_,' the French! But the '_Englisch_' (and here a positive hiss of
hatred would come into their guttural voices), the '_Englisch_' are
false to _everyone._ It was they who made the war. It is all their
fault, whatever has happened. We didn't want this war. We did all we
could to stop it. But the '_Englisch_' (again the hiss of hatred,
ringing like cold steel through the word) wanted to fight us, they were
jealous of us, and they used you poor brave Belgians as an excuse!"
That was always the beginning of their Litany.
Then they would follow the Chant of their victories.
"And now we are going to Calais! We shall start the bombardment of
England from there with our big guns. Before long we shall all be in
London."
And then would come the final strain, which was often true, as a matter
of fact, in addition to being wily.
"I've left my good home behind me and my dear good wife, and away there
in the Vaterland I have seven children awaiting my return. So you can
imagine if _I_ and men like me, wanted this war!"
It was generally seven children.
Sometimes it was more.
But it was never less!
The system was perfect, even about as small a thing as that!