awoke us at dawn, and by the time we had reached the open air Germany
had been left behind. It needed only the glimpse of a cart, drawn by a
dog, occupied by a man, and with a horse hitched behind—a genuine case
of the cart before the horse—trotting along an elevated highway,
sharp-cut against the floor-flat horizon, to tell us we were in Holland.
Besides, there were stodgy windmills slowly laboring on every hand, to
say nothing of the rather unprepossessing young Dutch lieutenant, in his
sickly gray-green uniform, who had boarded us at the frontier, to
confirm the change of nationality of Father Rhine. The lieutenant’s
duties consisted of graciously accepting an occasional sip of the
genuine old Scotch that graced the sideboard of the youthful commanding
officer, and of seeing to it that the rifles of the Tommies remained
under lock and key until they reached their sea-going vessel at the
mouth of the river—a task that somehow suggested a Lilliputian sent to
escort a regiment of giants through his diminutive kingdom.
In the little cluster of officers on the upper deck the conversation
rarely touched on war deeds, even casually, though one knew that many a
thrilling tale was hidden away in their memories. The talk was all of
rehabilitation, rebuilding of the civilian lives that the Great
Adventure had in so many cases all but wholly wrecked. Among the men
below there was more apathy, more silent dreaming, interspersed now and
then by those crude witticisms with which their class breaks such mental
tension:
“These ’ere blinkin’ Dutch girls always makes me think as ’ow their
faces ’ave been mashed by a steam-roller an’ their bloomin’ legs blowed
up with a bicycle pump, so ’elp me!”
The remark might easily be rated an exaggeration, but the solid
_Jongvrouws_ who clattered their wooden-shod way along the banks could
not in all fairness have been called delicate.
I was conscious of a flicker of surprise when the Dutch authorities
welcomed me ashore without so much as opening my baggage—particularly as
I was still in uniform. The hotel I chose turned out to be German in
ownership and personnel. Steeped in the yarns of the past five years, I
looked forward to at least the excitement of having spies go through my
baggage the moment I left it unguarded. Possibly they did; if so, they
were superhumanly clever in repacking the stuff as they found it.
If I had been so foolish as to suppose that I could hurry on at once
into Germany I should have been sadly disappointed. The first of the
several duties before me was to apply to the police for a Dutch identity
card. Without it no one could exist at liberty in nor leave the flat
little kingdom. As usually happens in such cases, when one is in a
hurry, the next day was Sunday. The chief excitement in Rotterdam on the
day of rest was no longer the Zoo, but the American camp, a barbed-wire
inclosure out along the wharves about which the Dutchman and his wife
and progeny packed a dozen rows deep to gaze at doughboys tossing
baseballs or swinging boxing-gloves, with about as much evidence of the
amusement as they might show before a Rembrandt or a Van Dyck painting.
Naturally so hilarious a Sabbath passes swiftly for a man eager to be
elsewhere!
There were, of course, the window displays of the closed shops, of
unfailing interest to any one long familiar only with warring lands. No
wonder these placid Dutchmen looked so full-cheeked and contented.
Though a tradesman may have found some things missing, to the casual eye
there were apparently none of the material good things of life that
could not be had in superabundance. Butter, eggs, cakes, bonbons, fat
bacon, meat of every species, sweets of all kinds, soap as good and as
cheap as before the war, cigarettes, cigars, and tobacco enough to have
set all France to rioting, all those little dainties which the gormands
of the belligerent countries had ceased even to sigh for, were here
tantalizingly spread out for block after block, street after street.
Restaurants ostentated menu-cards offering anything a hungry man could
pay for; milk was to be had every few yards at ten Dutch cents a glass.
One had something of the sensation that would come from seeing diamonds
and gold nuggets strewn along the way just around the corner from the
abode of a band of unsuccessful yeggmen. With the caution bred of
nineteen months in France I had filled the interstices of my baggage
with chocolate and cigars. It was like carrying gloves to Grenoble.
Nothing was more abundantly displayed in the windows of Rotterdam than
those two articles.
A closer inspection, however, showed that Holland had not entirely
escaped the secondary effects of the war. The milk that still sold so
cheaply showed a distinct evidence now of too close an alliance between
the herd and the pump. If the restaurants were fully supplied from
_hors-d’œuvre_ to coffee, the aftermath was a very serious shock to the
financial system. There seemed, moreover, to be no place where the
average rank and file of laboring humanity could get its wholesome fill
for a reasonable portion of its income. The bonbons were a trifle pasty;
the cigars not only as expensive as across the Atlantic—which means
manyfold more than the old Dutch prices—they were far more inviting
behind a plate-glass than when burning in front of the face. The
clothing that was offered in such abundance usually confessed frankly to
membership in the shoddy class. Suspenders and garters had all but lost
their elasticity; shoes—except the more popular Dutch variety—had soared
to the lofty realms to which all articles of leather have ascended the
world over. Bicycles, the Dutchman’s chief means of locomotion, however,
seemed as easily within reach as if the far-spread “rubber crisis” had
never discovered this corner of Europe.
Yet on the whole these happy, red-cheeked, overfed Dutchmen did not seem
to have a care in the world. Their attitude toward the American uniform
appeared to be cold, at best not above indifference, though the new
doughboy weekly credited them with genuine friendliness. One got the
impression that they were pro-Ally or pro-Boche interchangeably, as it
served their own interests—which after all is quite in keeping with
human nature the world round. The most serious task of the American
detachment was to prevent the supplies destined for hungry Europe beyond
from dwindling under the hands of the Dutch stevedores who transhipped
them. It would, perhaps, be unfair to call the stodgy little nation a
war profiteer, yet there were suggestions on all sides that it had not
always scorned to take advantage of the distress of its neighbors. I may
be prejudiced, but I did not find the Hollanders what the Spaniards
calls _simpático_, not even so much as I had fifteen years before. If I
may so express it, the kingdom left the same impression one feels upon
meeting an old classmate who has amassed wealth in some of the quicker,
less laborious methods our own land affords. One rejoices, in a way, at
his prosperity, yet one feels more in tune with the less “successful”
old-time friend who has been mellowed by his fair share of adversities.
Monday, though it was the last day of April, shivered under a ragged
blanket of wet snow. The line-up at the police station was international
and it was long. Furthermore, the lieutenants behind the extemporized
wickets were genuinely Dutch; they neither gossiped nor loafed, yet they
did not propose to let the haste of a disorderly outside world disturb
their racial serenity or jar their superb penmanship. They preserved the
same sense of order amid the chaos that surrounded their tight little
land as the magnificent policemen directing traffic in the main streets
outside, who halted the stranger inadvertently following the wrong
sidewalk with a courteous but exceedingly firm “You are taking a valk on
the _rhight_ side of the street, pleasse.” In the course of two hours I
reached a wicket—only to find that I needed two photographs. By the time
I had been mugged and reached the head of the international line again
another day had drifted into the irredeemable past.
It was not easy to get the Hollander to talk of the war and its kindred
topics, even when one found him able to speak some better-known tongue
than his own. He seemed to hold the subject in some such abhorrence as
cultured persons do the latest scandal, or, more exactly, perhaps, to
look upon it as a highly successful soap manufacturer does the plebeian
commodity on which his social superstructure is erected. Americans who
had been in the country long enough to penetrate a bit below the surface
were inclined to think that, if he had any other feeling than pro-Dutch,
he leaned a little to the eastward. Especially, however, was he
interested in seeing to it that both sides were given an equal
opportunity of eating undisturbed at his table—and paying well for the
privilege. In a mild way a clean and orderly hotelkeeper housing two
rival football teams would have displayed the same attitude.
But gibes at either side were not wholly tabooed. At an alleged “musical
comedy” in a local theater the scene that produced the most audible
mirth depicted the erstwhile Kaiser and Crown Prince—excellently mimed
down to the crippled arm of the one and the goat-face of the
other—enjoying the bucolic hospitality of their land of refuge. The
father, dressed in one of the most gorgeous of his innumerable uniforms,
stood at a convenient block, splitting kindling with a one-handed
hatchet; the son, in wooden shoes and a Zuyder Zee cap, sat on a
pierhead serenely fishing. Above their heads stood a road-sign pointing
in opposite directions to:
“PARIS—45,000 kilometers; CALAIS—75,000 kilometers.”
Their extended quarrel on who started the war, and why, brought no
evidence of pro-German sympathy from the audience. It was easy to
imagine the horrified protest from the German Legation which such a skit
would have brought down upon the producer’s head a year before. A scene
that caused little less mirth showed a Dutch frontier guard so hoary
with service that their clothing had sprouted toadstools and their feet
barnacles.
The more widely I inquired the more unlikely seemed the possibility of
getting into Germany. This was in keeping with my experiences in other
lands, had I stopped to think of it, where it had always proved simpler
to dash forward on a difficult trip first and make inquiries afterward.
Our consulate in Rotterdam had no suggestions to offer and advised me to
see our Legation at The Hague. An excellent train, showing no evidence
that the world had ever been at war, set me down at the Dutch capital an
hour later.
“You want to get into Germany?” queried the Legation, with elevated
eyebrows. “Well, all we can say is God bless you!”
A deeper probing, however, showed that this was only the official voice
speaking.
“Personally,” continued the particular secretary to whom I had appealed,
with a decided accent on the word, “I would suggest that you see the
German Legation. Officially, of course, we do not know that any such
place exists, but—I have heard—quite unofficially—that there is a Herr
Maltzen there who.... But of course you could not call on him in
American khaki....”
I came near making the _faux pas_ of asking where the German Legation
was situated. Of course the secretary could not have known officially.
The first passer-by outside, however, readily pointed it out to me—just
around the corner. By the time I had returned to Rotterdam and outfitted
myself in civilian garb carefully adjusted to pass muster at so exacting
a function as a German official visit and at the same time not to
suggest wealth to fellow-roadsters should I succeed in entering the
Empire, another day had been added to my debit column.
On the train to The Hague next morning I tested the disguise which
exceedingly European clothing, a recently acquired mustache, and the
remnants of a tongue I had once spoken rather fluently afforded by
playing German before my fellow-passengers. To all outward appearances
the attempt was successful, but try as I would I saw a German spy in
every rosy-cheeked, prosperous Dutchman who turned his bovine eyes
fixedly upon me. Herr Maltzen’s office hours were not until five in the
afternoon. When at last I was ushered into his august presence I
summoned my best German accent and laid as much stress as was becoming
on some distant relatives who—the past five years willing—still dwelt
within the Empire.
“The primary question, of course,” pronounced Herr Maltzen, in the
precise, resonant language of his calling, “is, are you German or are
you an American?”
“American, certainly,” I replied.
“Ah, then it will be difficult, extremely difficult,” boomed the
immaculate Teuton, solemnly. “Up to nine days ago I was permitted to
pass personally on the credentials of foreign correspondents. But now
they must be referred to Berlin. If you care to make official
application....”
“I hereby do so.”
“Unfortunately, it is not so simple as that. The application must be in
writing, giving references to several persons of the responsible class
in Germany, with a statement of your activities during the war, copies
of your credentials....”
“And how soon could I expect the answer?”
“With the very best of luck in two weeks, more probably three or four.”
I returned to Rotterdam in a somewhat dazed condition, having left Herr
Maltzen with the impression that I had gone to think the problem over.
Nor was that a false impression. It was more of a problem than even the
suave diplomat suspected. It happened that I had a bare six weeks left
for a tramp “over in Germany.” If I frittered away three-fourths of them
among the placid and contented Dutchmen, there would not be much left
except the regret of having given up the privilege of returning
home—eventually—under army pay and transportation. Moreover, rumblings
from Paris indicated that by that time a trip through Germany would be
of slight interest. I retired that night more nearly convinced than ever
that I was more properly fitted to become a protectorate under the
mandate of some benevolent league of managers for irresponsible persons
than to attempt to continue as an autonomous member of society.
Some time in the small hours I was rapped on the forehead with a
brilliant idea. So extraordinary an experience brought me to a sitting
posture and full wakefulness. The Food Commission had a steamer leaving
next day for Danzig. What could be more to my purpose than to drop off
there and tramp back to Holland? Among my possessions was an elaborately
non-committal letter—I had been given the privilege of dictating it
myself—from the “Hoover crowd” in Paris, down toward the end of which it
was specifically stated that, while I was _not_ connected with the Food
Commission, they would be glad if any courtesies could be shown me.
Carefully read, it would have made a rather satisfactory prelude to the
request of a starving and stranded American to be permitted to buy a
half-pound of bacon. Carelessly perused, however, it might easily have
been mistaken for a document of some importance, particularly as it was
decorated with the imposing letterhead of the “Supreme Economic
Council.” But I had scarcely expected it to be of use until I had
succeeded in jimmying my way into unoccupied Germany.
The Rotterdam section of the Food Commission was quite willing that I go
to Danzig—or any other place far enough away to make it impossible for
me to further disturb their complicated labors. But their duties ceased
when they had seen the relief-ships loaded. The ships themselves were
under command of the navy. The buck having thus successfully been
passed, I waded through a soggy snow-storm to the imposing Dutch
building that housed our officers in blue. An exceedingly courteous
naval commander gave the false impression that he was extremely sorry
not to be able to grant my request, but the already overcrowded boat,
the strict orders against carrying civilians.... In short, I should have
realized that red tape is not confined to the khaki-clad half of our
fighting forces. I shuffled my way back into the heart of the city in my
most downcast mood, tempered far beneath by a sneaking little
satisfaction that at least if I could not get into Germany I should run
no risk of being boiled in oil by the dreadful Sparticists or tickled to
death with garden rakes by a grinning band of almond-eyed Bolsheviki.
This would never do. The sun had already begun its last April descent,
and I had surrendered nearly three weeks before the privilege of being
able to sit idle and still draw a salary. I resolved that May should not
catch me supinely squatting in Rotterdam. The chief bridge was soon
burned. At the police station my identity card was stamped “out” so
quickly as to have given a sensitive person the impression that the
country was only too glad to be rid of him. At least I must leave
Holland, and if I left in an easterly direction there was only one place
that I could bring up. But what of Herr Maltzen? My dime-novel
conception of international espionage pictured him as having set a
half-dozen of his most trusted agents to dogging my footsteps. I would
outwit them! I hastened back to the hotel and wrote the Teuton envoy an
elaborate application for permission to enter Germany, with references,
copies of credentials, and touching as gently as possible on my unseemly
activities during the war. Unfortunately, I could recall the name and
address of only one of those distant German relatives of whom I had
boasted; the others I was forced to fake, arousing new misgivings in my
penny-dreadful conscience. In conclusion I added the subtle misleader
that while awaiting his reply I should make the most of my time by
journeying about Holland and possibly elsewhere. Then I tossed into a
straw suitcase a few indispensable articles, the confiscation of which I
felt I could survive, and dashed for the evening train to the eastern
frontier.
To carry out still further my movie-bred disguise I took third-class and
mingled with the inconspicuous multitude. There was no use attempting to
conceal myself in the coal-bin or to bribe the guard to lend me his
uniform, for the train did not go beyond the border. On the platform I
met an American lieutenant in full uniform, bound for Hamburg as a
courier; but I cut our interview as short as courtesy permitted, out of
respect for Herr Maltzen’s lynx-eyed agents. The lieutenant’s suggestion
that I ride boldly with him in first-class comfort gave me a very poor
impression of his subtlety. Evidently he was not well read in detective
and spy literature. However, there was comfort in the feeling of having
a fellow-countryman, particularly one of official standing, within easy
reach.
Holland lay dormant and featureless under a soggy snow coverlet. Many of
her hundreds of fat cattle wore canvas jackets. Every town and village
was gay with flags in honor of the tenth birthday of the Dutch princess,
a date of great importance within the little kingdom, though quite
unnoticed by the world at large. The prosperous, well-dressed workmen in
my compartment, having been inconspicuously let into the secret that I
was a German, jokingly-seriously inquired whether I was a Sparticist or
a Bolshevik. It was evident that they were too well fed to have any
sympathy for either. Then they took to complaining that my putative
fatherland did not send them enough coal, asserting that thousands had
died in Holland for lack of heat during the past few winters. Beyond
Utrecht the long stretch of sterile sand-dunes aroused a well-schooled
carpenter whose German was fluent to explain why Holland could not agree
to any exchange of territory with Belgium. To give up the strip of land
opposite Flushing would mean making useless the strong Dutch
fortifications there. The piece farther east offered in exchange looked
all very well on the map, but it was just such useless heather as this
we were gazing out upon. Holland could not accept a slice of
Germany—Emden, for instance—instead, because that would be certain
sooner or later to lead to war. Of course, he added, teasingly, Holland
could beat Germany with wooden shoes now, but ten years hence it would
not be so easy. Besides, the Dutch did not care for a part of Belgium,
though the Flemish population was eager to join them. They were quite
content to remain a small country. Big countries, like rich individuals,
had too many troubles, aroused too much envy. He might have added that
the citizens of a small country have more opportunity of keeping in
close touch with all national questions, but his own speech was a
sufficient demonstration of that fact. He knew, for example, just what
portions of the Zuyder Zee were to be reclaimed, and marked them on my
map. All the southern end was to be pumped out, then two other strips
farther north. But the sections north and south of Stavoren were to be
left as they were. The soil was not worth the cost of uncovering it and
the river Yssel must be left an outlet to the ocean, a viaduct sufficing
to carry the railway to the peninsula opposite.
It may have been the waving flags that turned the conversation to the
royal family. A gardener who had long worked for them scornfully branded
as canards the rumors in the outside world that the German consort was
not popular. The prince was quite democratic—royalty radiates democracy
nowadays the world over, apparently—and was so genuinely Dutch that he
would not speak German with any one who knew any other tongue. He spoke
most of the European ones himself, and in addition Tamil and Hindustani.
He took no part whatever in the government—unless he advised the Queen
unofficially in the privacy of their own chamber—but was interested
chiefly in the Boy Scout movement, in connection with which he hoped to
visit the United States after the war. They were a very loving couple,
quite as much so as if they were perfectly ordinary people.
By this time the short northern night had fallen. With two changes of
cars I rattled on into it and brought up at Oldenzaal on the frontier at
a late hour. The American lieutenant put up at the same hotel with me
and we discussed the pros and cons of my hopes of getting into Germany.
They were chiefly cons. The lieutenant was quite willing for me to make
use of his presence consistent with army ethics, and I retired with a
slightly rosier view of the situation.
In the morning this tint had wholly disappeared. I could not stir up a
spark of optimism anywhere in my system. Army life has a way of sapping
the springs of personal initiative. To say that I was 99 per cent.
convinced that I would be back in Oldenzaal before the day was over
would be an under-statement. I would have traded my chances of passing
the frontier for a Dutch cigar. I bought a ticket on the shuttle train
to the first German station in much the same spirit that a poker-player
throws his last dollar into a game that has been going against him since
the night before.