In the dark autumn of 1914 the City sprang up almost in a night,
as if by enchantment.
It was white magic that called it into being--the deep, quiet,
strong impulse of compassion and protection that moved the motherly
heart of Holland when she saw the hundreds of thousands of Belgian
fugitives pouring out of their bleeding, ravaged land, and running,
stumbling, creeping on hands and knees, blindly, instinctively
turning to her for safety and help.
“Come to me,” she said, like a good woman who holds out her arms and
spreads her knees to make a lap for tired and frightened children,
“come to me. I will take care of you. You shall be safe with me.”
All doors were open. The little brick farmhouses and cottages with
their gayly painted window-shutters; the long rows of city houses
with their steep gables; the prim and placid country mansions set
among their high trees and formal flower-gardens--all kinds of
dwellings, from the poorest to the richest, welcomed these guests
of sorrow and distress. Many a humble family drained its savings-bank
reservoir to keep the stream of its hospitality flowing. Unused
factories were turned into barracks. Deserted summer hotels were
filled up. Even empty greenhouses were adapted to the need of human
horticulture. All Holland was enrolled, formally or informally, in
a big _Comite voor Belgische Slachtoffers._
But soon it was evident that the impromptu methods of generosity
could not meet the demands of the case. Private resources were
exhausted. Poor people could no longer feed and clothe their
poorer guests. Families were unhappily divided. In the huge flock
of exiles driven out by the cruel German Terror there were goats as
well as sheep, and some of them bewildered and shocked the orderly
Dutch homes where they were sheltered, by their nocturnal habits
and negligible morals. Something had to be done to bring order and
system into the chaos of brotherly love. Otherwise the neat Dutch
mind which is so close to the Dutch heart could not rest in its bed.
This vast trouble which the evil of German militarism had thrust
upon a helpless folk must be helped out by a wise touch of military
organization, which is a good thing even for the most peaceful
people.
So it was that the City of Refuge (and others like it) grew up
swiftly in the wilderness.
It stands in the heathland that slopes and rolls from the wooded
hills of Gelderland to the southern shore of the Zuider Zee--a sandy
country overgrown with scrub-oaks and pines and heather--yet very
healthy and well drained, and not unfertile under cultivation. You
may see that in the little neighbor-village, where the trees arch
over the streets, and the kitchen-gardens prosper, and the shrubs
and flowers bloom abundantly.
The small houses and hotels of this tiny summer resort are of brick.
It has an old, well-established look; a place of relaxation with
restraint, not of ungirdled frivolity. The plain Dutch people love
their holidays, but they take them serenely and by rule: long walks
and bicycle-rides, placid and nourishing picnics in the woods or
by the sea, afternoon tea-parties in sheltered arbors. One of their
favorite names for a country-place is _Wel Teweden,_ “perfectly
contented.”
The commandant of the City of Refuge lives in one of the little
brick houses of the village. He is a portly, rosy old bachelor,
with a curly brown beard and a military bearing; a man of fine
education and wide experience, seasoned in colonial diplomacy.
The ruling idea in his mind is discipline, authority. His official
speech is abrupt and final, the manner of a martinet covering a
heart full of kindness and generous impulses.
“Come,” he says, after a good breakfast, “I want you to see my
camp. It is not as fine and fancy as the later ones. But we built
it in a hurry and we had it ready on time.”
A short ride over a sandy road brings you to the city gate--an
opening in the wire enclosure of perhaps two or three square miles
among the dwarf pines and oaks. The guard-house is kept by a squad
of Dutch soldiers. But it is in no sense a prison-camp, for people
are coming and going freely all the time, and the only rules within
are those of decency and good order.
“Capacity, ten thousand,” says the commandant, sweeping his hand
around the open circle, “quite a city, _niet waar?_ I will
show you the various arrangements.”
All the buildings are of wood, a mushroom city, but constructed with
intelligence to meet the needs of the sudden, helpless population.
You visit the big kitchen with its ever-simmering kettles; the
dining-halls with their long tables and benches; the schoolhouses
full of lively, irrepressible children; the wash-house where always
talkative and jocose laundresses are scrubbing and wringing the
clothes; the sewing-rooms where hundreds of women and girls are
busy with garments and gossip; the chapel where religious services
are held by the devoted pastors; the recreation-room which is the
social centre of the city; the clothing storerooms where you find
several American girls working for love.
Then you go through the long family barracks where each family has
a separate cubicle, more or less neat and comfortable, sometimes
prettily decorated, according to the family taste and habit; the
barracks for the single men; the barracks for the single women;
the two hospitals, one general, the other for infectious diseases;
and last of all, the house where the half-dozen disorderly women are
confined, surrounded by a double fence of barbed wire and guarded
by a sentry.
Poor, wretched creatures! You are sorry for them. Why not put the
disorderly men into a house of confinement, too?
“Ah,” says the commandant bluntly, “we find it easier and better
to send the disorderly men to jail or hospital in some near town.
We are easier with the women. I pity them. But they are full of
poison. We can't let them go loose in the camp for fear of infection.”
How many of the roots of human nature are uncovered in a place like
this! The branches and the foliage and the blossoms, too, are seen
more clearly in this air where all things are necessarily open and
in common.
The men are generally less industrious than the women. But they
work willingly at the grading of roads and paths, the laying out
and planting of flower-beds, the construction of ornamental designs,
of doubtful taste but unquestionable sincerity.
You read the names which they have given to the different streets
and barracks, and the passageways between the cubicles, and you
understand the strong, instinctive love which binds them to their
native Belgium. “Antwerp Avenue,” “Louvain Avenue,” “Malines Street,”
“Liege Street,” and streets bearing the names of many ruined towns
and villages of which you have never heard, but which are forever
dear to the hearts of these exiles. The names of the hero-king,
Albert, and of his brave consort, Queen Elizabeth, are honored by
inscriptions, and their pictures, cut from, newspapers, decorate
the schoolrooms and the little family cubicles.
The brutal power which reigns at Berlin may drive the Belgians out
of Belgium by terror and oppression. But it cannot drive Belgium
out of the hearts of the Belgians. While they live their country
lives, and Albert is still their King.
But think of the unnatural conditions into which these thousands
of human beings--yes, and hundreds of thousands like them, torn
from their homes, uprooted, dispersed, impoverished--are forced by
this bitter, cruel war. Think of the cold and ruined hearthstones,
the scattered families, the shelterless children, the desolate and
broken hearts. This is what Germany has inflicted upon mankind in
order to realize her robber-dream!
Yet the City of Refuge, being human, has its bright spots and its
bits of compensation. Here is one, out of many.
The chief nurse, a young Dutch lady of charming face and manners,
serving as a volunteer under the sacred sign of the Red Cross,
comes in, one morning, to make her report to the commandant.
“Well,” he says, disguising in his big voice of command the warm
admiration which he feels for the lady, “what is the trouble to-day?
Speak up.”
“Nothing, sir,” she answers calmly. “Everything is going on pretty
well. No new cases of measles--those in hospital improving. The
only thing that bothers me is the continual complaint about that
Mrs. Van Orley--you remember her, a thin, dark little person. She
is melancholy and morose, quarrels all the time, says some one has
stolen her children. The people near her in the barracks complain
that she disturbs them at night, moans and talks aloud in her sleep,
jumps up and runs down the corridor laughing or crying: 'Here they
are!' They don't believe she ever had any children. They think
she is crazy and want her put out. But I don't agree with that. I
think she has had children, and now she has dreams.”
“Send her away,” growls the commandant; “send her to a sanatorium!
This camp is not a lunatic asylum.”
“But,” interposes the nurse in her most discreet voice, “she is
really a very nice woman. If you would allow me to take her on as
a housemaid in the general hospital, I think I could make something
out of her; at least I should like to try.”
“Have your own way,” says the commandant, relenting; “you always
do. Now tell me the next trouble. You have something more up your
sleeve, I'm sure.”
“Babies,” she replies demurely; “two babies from Amsterdam. Lost,
somehow or other, in the flight. No trace of their people. A family
in Zaandam has been taking care of them, but can't afford it any
longer. So the Amsterdam committee has sent them here.”
The commandant has listened, his cheeks growing redder and redder,
his eyes rounder and more prominent. He springs up and paces the
floor in wrath.
“Babies!” he cries stormily. “By all the gods, da--those Amsterdammers!
Excuse me, but this is too much. Do they think this is a foundling
asylum? or a nursing home? Babies! What in Heaven's name am I to
do with them? Babies! Where are those babies?”
“Just outside, and very nice babies indeed,” says the nurse, opening
the hall door and giving a soft call.
Enter a slim black-haired boy of about three and a half years and
a plump golden-haired girl about a year younger. They toddle to
the nurse and snuggle against her blue dress and white apron.
Smiling she guides them toward the commandant and says: “Here they
are, sir. How do you like them?”
That terrific personage has been suddenly transformed from haircloth
into silk. He beams, and pulling out his fat gold watch, coos like
a hoarse dove: “Look here, _kinderen_, come and hear the bells
in my tick-tock!”
Presently he has one of them leaning against the inside of each
knee, listening ardently to the watch.
“What do you think of that!” he says. “What is your name, youngster?”
“Hendrik,” answers the boy, looking up.
“Hendrik _what?_ You have another name, haven't you?”
The boy shakes his head and looks puzzled, as if the thought of
two names were too much for him. _“Hendrik,”_ he repeats more
clearly and firmly.
“And what is her name?” asks the commandant, patting the little
girl.
_“Sooss,”_ answers the boy. “Mama say _'ickle angel.'_
Hendrik say _Sooss.”_
All effort to get any more information from the children was fruitless.
They were too small to remember much, and what they did remember
was of their own size--only very little things, of no importance
except to themselves. The commandant looks at the nurse quizzically.
“Now, miss, you have unloaded these vague babies on me. What do
you propose that I should do with them? Adopt them?”
“Not yet, anyhow,” she answers, smiling broadly. “Let us take them
up to the camp. I'll bet we can find some one there to look after
them. What do you say, sir?”
“Well, well,” he sighs, “have your own way as usual! Just ring that
bell for the automobile, _als't-Ublieft.”_
In the busy sewing-room the two children are standing up on one
of the tables. The commandant has an arm around each of them, for
they are a little frightened by so much noise and so many eyes
looking at them. The chatter dies down, as he speaks in his gruff
authoritative voice, but with a twinkle in his eyes, rather like
a middle-aged Santa Claus.
“Look here! I've got two fine babies.”
A titter runs through the room.
_“Ja, Men'eer,”_ says one of the women, “congratulations!
They are _lievelingen_--darlings!”
“Silence!” growls the commandant amiably. “None of your impudence,
you women. Look here! These two children--I want somebody to adopt
them, or at least to take care of them. I will pay for them. Their
names are Hendrik and--”
A commotion at the lower end of the room. A thin, dark little
woman is standing up, waving her piece of sewing like a flag, her
big eyes flaming with excitement.
“Stop!” she cries, hurrying and stumbling forward through the
crowd of women and girls. “Oh, stop a minute! They are mine--I lost
them--mine, I tell you--lost--mine!”
She reaches the head of the table and flings her arms around the
boy, crying: “My Hendrik!”
The boy hesitates a second, startled by the sudden wildness of
her caress. Then he presses his hot little face in her neck.
_“Lieve moeder!”_ he murmurs. “Where was you? I looked.”
But the thin, dark little woman has fainted dead away.
The rest we will leave, as the wise commandant does, to the chief
nurse.