There they lie in a gloomy room of the railroad station, the English
prisoners, together with their allies from the Old and New Worlds. The
room used to be the waiting room for non-smokers, and it is no darker
or uglier than any of the other rooms, only it seems so because of its
occupants.
"Service at the Zoo." Every one of us knows what this means--duty with
the prisoners. Our soldiers have invented good-natured nicknames for
the Turcos, Indians, and Algerians that they meet here: "The men from
the monkey theatre," "The Masqueraders," "The Hagenbeck Troop." But
they walk past the Englishmen in silent hatred. A little sympathy is
needed, even for banter.
The prisoners' room is empty, except for a few inmates who for various
reasons could not be sent away. I am on duty here to-day. Crumpled
forms squat on mattresses along the wall like multi-colored bundles of
clothing. Not much is to be seen of their faces. Only a black arm, a
lank yellow hand, a gaudy blue sash, a pair of wide red trousers stand
out. There they crouch in the same stoical calm as they did before
their houses in the distant Orient, with the exception that they, with
the instinct of wounded animals, hide their faces.
An Englishman lies on a bed opposite them. He looks at me expectantly
as if he wants to say something. But although I am not forbidden to
talk with the prisoners, I feel no necessity for doing so.
An hour goes by. From time to time I give a drink to the Orientals who
ask me for it through gestures. At last the Englishman can keep silent
no longer and asks:
"Will they treat us very severely?"
I shrug my shoulders. "People feel angry at the English. Our soldiers
assert that they waved white flags and then threw hand grenades."
"I don't know anything about that. That may have been the case earlier,
but I have been in the war only eight days. A week ago I was in
Newcastle with my wife."
He takes a tin case from under his shirt, opens it, and looks at it
for a long time. Then he shows me the case, which contains the picture
of a woman, his wife. Then he takes a piece of paper from his trousers
pocket and shows me that, too. A name and address are written on it.
"That is the man who bound up my wound on the field of battle. He was
very good to me. After the war I shall write to him."
After a long period of silence he begins to talk again. But I do not
think further conversation timely. I only pay attention once and that
is when he explains to me his grade in the service and his rate of pay.
He is something like a Sergeant and says, pointing to his insignia: "A
common soldier gets only so much; with this insignia he gets so much
more, and when he has both, as I have, he gets so much." He names the
munificent sum with visible pride.