That night I went to the Jägerstrasse, to Maxim's. The place is
everything the name suggests; one of those Berlin cafés that open when
the theaters are coming out and close when the last girl has smiled
and gone off with the last man. I sat in a white and gold room with a
cynical German surgeon, listening to his comments.
"It is the best in town now," he explained. "All the Palais de Danse
girls come here. Don't be in a hurry. I know what you want for your
articles. You'll see it soon."
Maxim's, like most places of the sort, was methodically banal. But
one by one officers strolled in and soon a piano struck up the notes
of a patriotic song. When the music began the girls left the little
tables where they had been waiting for some man to smile, and swarmed
around the piano, singing one martial song upon another, while officers
applauded, drank their healths, and asked them to sing again.
Time passed and the girls sang on, flushed and savage as the music
crashed to the cadenzas of war. What were the real emotions of these
subjects of Germany; had the war genuine thrills for them? I had talked
with decent women of all classes about the war; what of the women whose
hectic lives had destroyed real values?
"Get one of those girls over here," I told the surgeon, "and ask her
what she thinks of the war."
"Do you really mean it?" he said with a cynical smile.
"Surely. This singing interests me. I wonder what's back of it?"
He called one of them. "Why not sing?" Hilda said with a shrug. "What
else? There are few men here now and there are fewer every night. What
do I think of this war? My officer's gone to the front without leaving
me enough to keep up the apartment. _Krieg? Krieg ist schrecklich!_ War
is terrible!"
My German friend was laughing.
"War?" he smiled. "And you thought it was going to change that kind."
But I was thinking of the woman with the veil whom I had seen in the
Hall of Awful Doubt; and outside the night air felt cool and clean....
But my symbol of Berlin is not these things--not bustling streets
filled with motors, swarming with able-bodied men whom apparently the
army did not yet need. Its summation is best expressed by the varied
sights and emotions of an afternoon in mid-December.
Lodz has fallen; again Hindenburg has swept back the Russian hordes.
Black-shawled women call the extras. Berlin rises out of its calmness
and goes mad. Magically the cafés fill.... I am walking down a side
street. I see people swarming toward a faded yellow brick church. They
seem fired with a zealot's praise. I go in after them and see them
fall on their knees.... They are thanking Him for the Russian rout....
Wondering I go out. I come to another church. Its aisles are black with
bowed backs; the murmur of prayer drones like bees; a robed minister is
intoning:
"Oh, Almighty Father, we thank Thee that Thou art with us in our fight
for the right; we thank Thee that----"
It is very quiet in there. War seems a thing incredibly far away. The
sincerity of these people grips your heart. I feel as I never felt
in church before. Something mysteriously big and reverent stirs all
around.... Then outside in the street drums rattle, feet thump. A
regiment is going to the front! I hurry to see it go by, but back in
the church the bowed forms pray on.
(This American observer now leaves Berlin to go to the battle-front
with the German armies. He continues to narrate his experiences in some
of the world's greatest battles. He tells the first complete account of
the great battle of Augustowo Wald in which the Russian army of 240,000
men was annihilated, and how he was a guest of honor at the "Feast of
Victory.")