SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER OF THE LEGION OF HONOR
A little round apple dumpling sort of woman in nun's costume was
bobbing a curtsy to me from the doorway. In excited French she begged
me to be seated. For I was "Monsieur l'Américain" who had come to visit
Gerbéviller, the little community nestling in the foothills of the
Vosges, that has suffered quite as much from Germans as any city, even
those in Belgium. It was her "grand pleasure" that I should come to
visit her.
I stared for a moment in amazement. I could scarcely realize that this
plump, bobbing little person was the famous Sister Julie. I had pulled
every wire I could discover among my acquaintances at the Foreign
Office and the Ministry of War to be granted the privilege of making
the trip into that portion of the forbidden "zone of military activity"
where Sister Julie had made her name immortal. I carried a letter
from one of the great officials of the Quai d'Orsay, addressed to the
little nun in terms of reverence that one might use toward his mother.
He signed himself "Yours, with great affection," after craving that
she would grant me audience. And there she was, with the letter still
unopened in her hand, telling me how glad she was to see me.
I confess I expected a different type of woman. I thought a different
type necessary to handle the German invaders in the fashion Sister
Julie handled them at Gerbéviller. I imagined a tall, commanding
woman--like Madame Macherez, Mayor of Soissons--would enter the little
sitting room where I had been waiting that sunny morning.
In that little sitting room the very atmosphere of war is not
permitted. There is too much close at hand, where nine-tenths of the
city lies in ashes as a result of the German visit. So in that room
there is nothing but comfort, peace and good cheer. Potted geraniums
fill the window boxes, pretty chintz curtains cover the glass. Where
bullets had torn furrows in the plaster and drilled holes in the
woodwork the wounds were concealed as far as possible. It was hard
to realize that the deep, rumbling roars that shook the house while
we talked were caused by a Franco-German artillery duel only a few
kilometers away.
[Illustration: SISTER JULIE IN THE DOOR OF HER HOSPITAL]
The little woman drew out chairs from the center table and we seated
ourselves, she talking continuously of how glad she was that one from
"that great America" should want to see her and know about her work.
Ah! her work, there was still so much to do!
She got up and toddled to the window, drawing aside the chintz
curtains. "Poor Gerbéviller!" she sighed as we looked out over the
desolate waste of burned houses. "My poor, poor Gerbéviller!"
Tears stood in her brown eyes and fell upon the wide white collar of
the religious order that she wore. She brushed them aside quickly
and turned to the table, again all smiles and dimples. Yes! dimples,
for although Sister Julie is small, she is undeniably plump. She has
dimples in her cheeks and in her chin--chins I might say. She even has
dimples on the knuckles of her hands, after the fashion of babies.
Her face is round and rosy. Her voice low and mellow. She looks only
about forty of her sixty years--a woman who seems to have taken life
as something that is always good. Evil and Germans seem never to have
entered her door.
Then I remembered what this woman had done; how all France is talking
about her and is proud of her. How the President of the Republic went
to the little, ruined city, accompanied by the Presidents of the Senate
and the Chamber of Deputies, and a great military entourage, just
to hang the jeweled cross of the Legion of Honor about her neck. I
wondered what they thought when she bobbed her curtsy in the doorway.
For it took a war to distinguish this little woman from the crowd.
Outside her order she was unknown before the Germans came to France.
But it did not matter to her. She just went placidly and smilingly on
her way--"doing the Lord's work," as she told me. Then the day arrived
when the Germans came, and this little round apple dumpling woman blew
up. That is just the way it was. I could tell it from the way her
brown eyes flashed when she told the tale to me. She was angry through
and through just from the telling. She just exploded when the Germans
entered her front door. And then her name was written indelibly on the
scroll of fame as one of the great heroines of the war.
The Germans wanted bread, did they?--such was the way the story
began--well, what did they mean by coming to her for it? They burned
the baker's shop, didn't they, on the way through the town? Well,
how did they expect her to furnish them bread? Her bread was for her
people. Yes, she had a good supply of it. But the Germans could find
their own bread.
The German officer pointed a revolver at her head. She reached out her
hand and struck it from his grasp. Then she waved a plump finger under
his nose. Her voice was no longer low and mellow. It was commanding and
austere. How dared he point a revolver at her--a "religieuse," a nun?
He could get right out of her house, too,--and get out quick.
The officer's heavy jaw dropped in astonishment. He backed his way
along the narrow hall, not stopping to pick up his weapon, and kicking
backward the file of soldiers that crowded behind him. At the door
Sister Julie put a detaining hand on his shoulder.
"You are an officer," she said--the man understood French perfectly.
"Well, while your soldiers are setting fire to the town, you just tell
them to keep out of this end of the street. This is my house; it is for
me and the five Sisters with me. Now we have made it a hospital. You
barbarians just keep out of here with your burning."
Barbarians! The officer raised his fist to strike. Something that was
not of heaven made Sister Julie's eyes deadly black. The man lowered
his fist, quailing. "The devil!" he said. Yes, barbarians! She almost
shouted the word at him--and it was quite understood that his men were
not to burn the hospital or the houses adjoining.
The crowd cleared out of the house rapidly and the breadth of Sister
Julie's form filled the doorway. It was night and the burning was
progressing rapidly, the Germans methodically firing every house.
Some soldiers came to the house next to the hospital, and broke open
the door. Sister Julie left her position in the hospital doorway and
advanced upon them.
"Go away from here," she ordered. "Don't you dare set that house afire.
It is next to the hospital. If it burns the hospital will burn, too. So
go away--your officers have said that you are not to burn this end of
the street."
The soldiers gazed at her stupidly. She advanced upon them, waving her
arms. Several, after staring a moment, suddenly made the sign of the
cross, and the entire party disappeared down the street to continue
their destruction elsewhere.
The little nun then left her post at the door. She went to see that
her food supplies were safe. She had a conference with the other
Sisters, and visited the beds of the thirteen wounded that the
house already contained. Six of the wounded were of the band of
seventy-five chasseurs who had held the Gerbéviller bridge against
the Germans--twelve thousand Germans for eight hours--until their
ammunition gave out. The others were civilians who were shot when the
Germans finally entered the town.
After visiting her wounded, Sister Julie went out the back door of
the house accompanied by two of the Sisters. The three carried large
clothes baskets, kitchen knives, and a hatchet. Through the gardens and
behind the burning houses they passed down the hill to the part of the
city near the river, which was already smoldering in ashes. They went
into the ruined barns, where the cows and horses were all burned alive.
I was shown a bleached white bone, a souvenir of one of the cows.
With the hatchet and knives they secured enough bones and flesh from
the dead animals to fill the two great baskets. Then they climbed
painfully up the hill, behind the burning buildings, to the back door
of their home. Water was drawn from their well, and a great fire built
in the old-fashioned chimney in the kitchen. The enormous kettle was
filled with the water, the meat and the bones, and soon the odor from
gallons of soup penetrated the outer door to the street. Again a
German officer headed a delegation into the hall.
"You have food here," he announced to Sister Julie.
"We have," she snapped back. She was very busy. She waved the butcher
knife under his nose. She then told him that the soup was for the
people of Gerbéviller and for her wounded. She expressed no regret that
there would be none left for Germans.
The officer said that the twelve thousand who entered Gerbéviller that
afternoon was the advance column. The main body, with the commissariat,
was coming shortly. Meanwhile, they were hungry. They would take Sister
Julie's supply. They would take it--eh? Take it? They would only do
that over her dead body. Meanwhile, they would leave her kitchen
instantly. They did--the butcher knife making ferocious passes behind
them on their way to the door. Sister Julie was still doing her "work
for the Lord."
She then ordered all the wash tubs filled with water and brought
inside the hall. The fire was coming into the street. Dense smoke
was everywhere. Even the Germans now seemed willing to save that
particular part of Gerbéviller. It was the portion near the railway
station and the telegraph. A substantial building near the _gare_ would
make an excellent headquarters for their General, who was due to arrive
shortly. The civilians (only a few of the 2,000 inhabitants remained)
were all herded into a field just on the outskirts of the town. Sister
Julie, with Sister Hildegarde, sallied forth with their soup, and fed
them. The next day she would see that the Germans allowed them to come
to the hospital for more.
When she returned, a number of soldiers who had discovered a wine
cellar were reeling up the street. They stopped in front of the
hospital, but turned their attention to the house opposite. They would
burn it. It had evidently been forgotten. They broke into the place,
and in a moment flames could be seen through the lower windows.
Sister Julie called to the soldiers. They stared at her from the middle
of the road. She motioned for them to come to her. They came. She told
them to follow her into the hall. There she showed them the wash tubs
full of water. They were to carry those tubs across the street and put
out the fire they had started, and which would endanger the hospital.
This was according to orders given by the officers. After putting out
the fire they were to bring the tubs back and refill them from the well
in the back yard. The work was too heavy for the Sisters.
When these orders were obeyed, Sister Julie carried a little camp
chair to the front steps and began a vigil that lasted all night long
and half the next day. She saw the great German army of a hundred and
fifty thousand march by, the band playing "Deutschland über Alles," the
infantry doing the goose step as they passed the burning houses. Four
times during the night the tubs of water in the hall were emptied and
refilled when the flames crept close to her house.
At dawn next morning four officers approached her where she sat upon
the doorstep. One of them informed her that, inasmuch as she was
concealing French soldiers with arms inside the house, they intended to
make a search.
"You are telling a lie," she informed them calmly, and did not
budge. Two of the officers drew revolvers. Sister Julie sniffed
contemptuously. The first officer again spoke. But his tone altered. It
was less bumptious. He said that, inasmuch as the house had been spared
the flames, at least an investigation was necessary.
Sister Julie arose and started inside. The officers stopped her. Two
of them would lead the way. The other two would follow. The pair, with
drawn revolvers, entered first and tiptoed cautiously down the hall.
Then came the little nun. The second pair drew poniards and brought
up the rear. She directed them to the rooms on the first floor, the
sitting room, dining room and the kitchen, where Sister Hildegarde was
busy over the fire. Then they went upstairs to the beds of the wounded.
The first officer insisted that the covers be drawn back from each
bed to make sure that the occupants were really wounded. Sister Julie
remained silent at the door. As they turned to leave, she said with
sarcasm, but with dignity: "You have seen. You know that I have spoken
the truth. We are six Sisters of Mercy. Our work is to care for the
sick. We will care for your German wounded, as well as our French. You
may bring them here."
That morning the invaders began battle with the French, who had
finished their entrenchments some kilometers on the other side of
the town. At night the Germans accepted Sister Julie's invitation,
and brought two hundred and fifty-eight wounded to her house. They
completely filled the place. They were placed in rows in the sitting
room, the dining room, and the hall. They were even in the kitchen and
in the attic. The weather was fine and they were stretched in rows
in the garden. The few other houses undestroyed by fire were also
turned into hospitals, and for fourteen days Sister Julie and her five
assistants scarcely slept. They just passed the time giving medicine
and food and nursing wounds. By the fourteenth day, the French had made
a considerable advance and were dropping shells into the town, so the
Germans decided to take away their own wounded.
During all this time daily rations were served to the civilian
survivors, on orders secured by Sister Julie at the German
headquarters. The civilians were ill-treated, but they were fed. Sister
Julie gave me concrete instances of outrage. Many were killed for no
reason whatever; some were sent as hostages to Germany. During fourteen
days they were herded in the field. Afterward ten were found dead,
with their hands manacled. Sister Julie told me one instance of an
old woman, a paralytic, seventy-eight years old, who was taken out in
an automobile to show the various wine cellars among the neighboring
farms. The old woman had not been out of her house for years and did
not know the wine cellars. So the Germans killed her. Sister Julie
went out at night and found her body. She and Sister Hildegarde buried
it.
On the morning of the fifteenth day, the battle was fiercer than ever.
The French had taken a hill near the outskirts, and mitrailleuse
bullets frequently whistled through the streets. Several times they
entered the windows of Sister Julie's house and buried themselves in
the walls. But none of the Sisters was hurt.
There was a lull in the fighting for the next few days. The French
were very busy at something--the Germans knew not what. They became
more insolent than ever, and drank of the wine they had stored at the
_gare_. In the ruins of the church they found the grilled iron strong
box, where the priest, who had been sent to Germany as a hostage, had
locked up the golden communion vessels, afterward giving the key to
Sister Julie. The lock was of steel, and very old and strong. They
tried to break it, but failed. They came to Sister Julie for the key,
and she sent them packing. "I lied to them," she said softly. "I told
them I didn't have the key."
Through the grilled iron of the box the soldiers could see the vessels.
They were of fine gold, and very ancient. They were given to the
church in the fifteenth century by René, Duc de Lorraine and King of
Jerusalem. The strong box was riveted to the foundations of the church
with bands of steel and could not be carried away. They shot at the
lock, to break it. But it did not break. Instead the bullets penetrated
the box, a half dozen tearing ragged holes in the vessels. The wine
finally became of greater interest than the gold, and the soldiers went
away. That night Sister Julie went alone into the ruins of the church,
opened the box, and took the vessels out.
She paused in her story, got up from her chair, and unlocked a cabinet
in the wall. From it she brought the vessels wrapped in a white cloth.
I took the great golden goblet in my hands and saw the holes of the
German bullets. Sister Julie sat silent, looking out through the chintz
curtains into the street. Then she smiled.
She was thinking of the eighth morning after the wounded had been taken
away. That was the happiest morning of her life, she told me. At 5
o'clock that morning, just after daybreak, Sister Hildegarde had come
to her bed to tell her that the Germans stationed near the _gare_ in
that part of the town all seemed to be going to the ruined part, near
the river, in the opposite direction from the French. A few minutes
later Sister Julie got up and looked from the window. Then she almost
fell down the stairs in her rush to get out of doors. About fifty yards
up the street was a watering trough. Seated on horseback before that
trough, watering their animals, laughing and smoking cigarettes, were
six French dragoons.
"I cried at the blessed sight of them," she said. "They sat there, so
gay, so debonair, as only Frenchmen know how to sit on horses." Sister
Julie hurried to them. They smiled at her and saluted as she approached.
"But do you know the Germans are here?" she anxiously inquired. "You
may be taken prisoners."
"Oh, no, we won't," they answered in chorus. "There are thirty thousand
more of us just behind--due here in about two minutes. The whole French
army is on the advance."
Then came thirty thousand. After the thirty thousand came more
thousands. All that day the street echoed to the feet of marching
Frenchmen. Their faces were dark and terrible when they saw what the
Germans had done. Most of the day Sister Julie sat on her doorstep
and wept for joy. Since that morning not a German has been seen in
Gerbéviller.
Sister Julie ceased her story and wiped the tears that had been running
in streams down her cheeks. We heard the rattle of a drum outside
the window. It was the signal of the town crier with news for the
population. Sister Julie opened the window and looked out. It was the
announcement of the meeting to be held that afternoon, a meeting that
she had arranged for discussion of plans for rebuilding the town.
Five hundred of the population had returned. There was so much work
to do. The streets must be cleared of the débris. The sagging walls
must be torn down and new buildings erected. It would be done quickly,
immediately almost; aid was forthcoming from many quarters. The new
houses would be better than the old. The streets were to be wide and
straight, not narrow and crooked. Gerbéviller was to arise from her
ashes modern and improved. And only a few miles away the cannon still
roared and thundered.
I asked her about the Cross of the Legion of Honor given her by
President Poincaré. I asked why she did not wear it. A pleased flush
deepened the color in her rosy cheeks. I shall always remember the
grace and dignity of her answer.
"I do not wear it because it was not meant for me alone," she said. "It
was given to the women of France who have done their duty."
"Not the little red ribbon of the order," I persisted. "You should pin
that on your dress."
But Sister Julie shook her head. She is a "religieuse," she explained.
Nuns do not wear decorations. They are doing the work of the Lord.