* * * * *
[Illustration: “ALTES AMT,” BEESKOW LAGER]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A “VERBOTEN” SKETCH.]
VIII BEESKOW LAGER
The journey from Carlsruhe, in Baden, to Beeskow in der Mark presented
a marked contrast to the nightmare, the shivering and sleepless
progression between Le Cateau and Carlsruhe in mid-winter. We occupied
second-class carriages, well and warmly upholstered, and these we held
without change throughout the journey of thirty odd hours.
The people encountered _en route_ were entirely civil, and not
over-curious. Every second woman seemed to bear upon her back--besides
the apparent burden of the war--a basket; every third man a rucksack.
Everywhere were visible evidences of intensive agriculture; the making
the most of a possibly not too opulent soil. Tillage right up the
hillslopes; potato patches almost up to the six-foot way. Continually
we alternated field and wood; brown boles of fir and pine, with, hidden
in their duskiness, the white stems of the silver birch, like flashes
of summer lightning.
We had just a glimpse of Heidelberg, with its castle on the hill, and
arrived at Frankfurt towards six o’clock in the evening. We marched
through the crowded station--which in one of its wings bore evidence
of a recent air raid--to a hall where we had a meal of macaroni and
rissoles served by a pert and self-possessed boy of eleven clothed in a
precocious suit of evening dress.
Next morning Weimar, with its quiet memories of Goethe and Schiller;
Merseburg, with its vast and unquiet Krupp works, springing up here in
precaution against possible air raids on Essen. And so, about nine of
the clock on Saturday evening, after a divergence from the main line,
the train pulled up at Beeskow, where it became at once apparent that
practically all the youngsters, and a large number of the grown-ups of
the town, had turned out to witness our arrival.
It was the nearest thing to taking part on the wrong side at a
spectacle or victory that I had yet experienced--of being “butcher’d to
make a Roman holiday”--and yet it was soon evident that there was not a
sufficiency of “hate” in the whole crowd to cover a 50-pfennig piece.
To most of the children this was the first sight of the _Engländer_,
and they had obviously expected much more of monstrosity and oddity
than was forthcoming, and were disposed to be mirthful on very easy
provocation.
A Lieutenant of the Cameron Highlanders, dressed in an arrangement of
the garb of old Gaul, which permitted of carpet slippers, puttees, and
an orderly’s peaked cap, consequently received most of the attention.
Presently we came to a red-brick building of grim and ancient aspect,
with still visible evidences of an ancient moat. Turning up a rudely
cobbled way, we passed through an old wooden gateway, which, opened for
our admittance, closed immediately again, making a welcome shutting-out
of the noise of the rabble. We were in a sloping courtyard of
circumscribed appearance, with a square old red-brick tower standing up
in the dusk, and a surrounding of other buildings, with rolling roofs,
having rounded dormer windows in them.
Most of the other officers were disappointed at a first impression of
the place. “Lee’s happy,” said one, “because he’s got an old castle to
sketch!”
Before we could presume on bed--for which, having spent a sleepless
night in the train, we were more than ready--there had to be a
searching of baggage. This brought me no little searching of heart,
my impedimenta, as an old-timer, being easily the heaviest, and
containing sketches and journals which I desired to preserve. I was
busily explaining the multitude of these note-books by hinting at my
theatrical activities at Carlsruhe, when another of the examining
officers produced from one of my portfolios what at first sight might
have seemed to be a somewhat incriminating sketch of that camp. Beyond
a rather flattering interest in my artistic efforts generally, however,
the drawings were passed without trouble, but the _Oberleutnant_ said
that it would be necessary to retain for perusal one book of my journal.
[Illustration: THE PRISON CAMP AT BEESKOW--AN AUDIENCE WITH THE
COMMANDANT.]
I found that my dormitory was located in what had been a bishop’s
palace, the arms still being visible on either side of one of the
windows. Passing up a very old and dirty, but not uninteresting
staircase, and through a somewhat dingy and dilapidated dining-hall, I
obtained sanctuary with eleven other officers in an equally dingy and
disreputable room, the ancient oaken cross-rafters of which had been
painted to a ridiculous imitation of marble! Notwithstanding, there was
small likelihood of my dreaming “that I dwelt in marble halls.” Lights,
for this night only, were not turned out until midnight, though I have
it on my conscience that I endeavoured to mislead the _Feldwebel_
into the belief that this was the customary hour at Carlsruhe.
[Illustration: THE OLD TOWER, BEESKOW LAGER]
Hot coffee--_Ersatz_--made from acorns, was served at eight o’clock
next morning; at nine, to the sound of hammer-blows struck upon the
old, red-rusted coulter of a plough swung from a wooden frame, we
mustered in the court for roll-call. There were three officers--the
Commandant, an elderly gentleman, with an obviously explosive temper,
and a decidedly unmilitary stoop; the _Oberleutnant_, portly and
complacent-looking; and the Lieutenant, a young man, and the only one
of the trio to have seen service in this war. He was here, indeed,
because he had been very badly wounded. The orders of the camp were
read by the interpreter, who would doubtless have looked rather
_distingué_ in evening dress, but whom a private soldier’s uniform
rendered stiff and gauche.
He was sufficiently gracious to give me some details as to the history
of our new domicile, the _altes Amt_, and the squat old _Turm_. The
place was erected in 1252 by Barons or Knights, in whose hands it
remained for a couple of centuries. These Barons becoming financially
indebted to the Bishops of Frankfurt-on-the-Oder, and Lebus, the
buildings ultimately passed into their possession, and were used as
an ecclesiastical residence. About the beginning of last century they
reverted to the Crown, and finally to the Corporation of Beeskow. It
was looked upon as a punishment camp, and we were the first British
prisoners to be held there.
THE KANTINE AND THE CATERING
We had a _Kantine_, run by a civilian named Herr Solomon, who, however,
because of his dilatoriness, and an easy deferring until to-morrow of
what should have been ordered to-day, was always known as “Morgen,
Morgen!” The _Kantine_, which was open daily from 11 to 1, and 5 to
7 evening, contained a selection of commodities ranging from a lager
beer--which was very essentially a _Lager_ beer--to a solitary example
of a variation of Sandow’s chest-expander, for which no purchaser was
ever forthcoming. Something to expand a still lower compartment of our
anatomy was what we were in continual search of.
[Illustration: HERR SOLOMON, THE KANTINE KEEPER.]
The catering here, however, which was also in Herr “Morgen, Morgen’s”
hands, marked a great advance on the Carlsruhe kitchen. The finer hand
of femininity was quite apparent in the cooking, a number of women from
the country being employed, and we usually were served with a soup
which we could eat without loss of self-respect. Being in the centre of
an agricultural district, we had a good supply of potatoes and certain
vegetables, and when we were able to supplement these with a slice of
bully, we did not do too badly.
“MUCH READING----!”
Immediately on our arrival at Beeskow I was appointed to the enviable
post of librarian, but found myself in the unenviable position of
having no library. I accordingly placed upon the notice board the
following urgent appeal:
[Illustration: “ONLY ONE BOOK!”]
This rather tickled the camp, including the German officers,
who immediately responded with a gift of some twenty volumes.
Unfortunately, these were entirely in German, through which only one or
two of the officers could even spell their way, but they were in the
nature of a godsend to M. Bloch, a Russian dentist, who was the only
foreign officer in camp, and who spoke German as fluently as one may
speak that influent tongue. _Pro tem._, then, I considered myself as
acting to him in the not onerous capacity of private librarian.
A few fragments of Tauchnitz editions were very literally “fluttering”
around the camp, and on these I affixed wherever possible the seal
of my office--and a touch of seccotine. I also sent out appeals to
the Christlichen Vereine Junger Männer, Berlin; to Sir Alfred Davies,
and the Camp Libraries Committee, London; while I made ordering of a
formidable list of Tauchnitz publications. Berlin responded almost
immediately with thirty volumes of varied sort, mostly the gift
apparently of private citizens.
In several of the works I observed a bookplate, inscribed “Sophie,
Mein Buch,” and representing a very green and very flourishing Tree
of Knowledge, bearing five apples of a more than tempting redness, a
rising sun, and an open volume. Somehow the bookplate conjured up
before me a vision of the gentle Sophie, fresh as the dawn, and rosy
and ripe as the pictured apples.
With this collection and the odds and ends floating about the camp I
decided to open shop, though my shelves would only afford a fraction of
a book per man. Accordingly at nine o’clock in the morning, immediately
after roll-call, I headed a regular rush and stampede to the library;
undid the padlock, swung wide the door of the book cupboard, and
declared the library indeed open.
As senior officer of the camp, the Colonel had choice of the first
volume, after which it was a case of first come first served. For a few
minutes the floor space in front of my cupboard presented something of
the appearance of a football field with a “rugger” scrum on, and then
I closed the door upon only two books--and these the second volumes of
two-volume novels. In less than a month, however, I had several hundred
books under my charge.
One day the German interpreter handed me a note of four volumes
which he was desirous of having on loan. These were: “The Poems of
Robert Burns”; “The Adventures of Tom Sawyers”; “An Ideal Husband,”
by Oscar Wilde; and “East Lynne,” by----Carlyle! This last rather
nonplussed me until I recalled that the name of the greatly-wronged and
long-suffering solicitor in the novel--which one might say had solved
the problem of perpetual emotion--was Carlyle.
It was this same interpreter who, donating to the library a small
guide book of Beeskow, first tore off the cover which carried a map of
the town and environs. “As a good German,” he said, “it is my duty to
prevent you from escaping.”
WE WALK ABROAD
Having adhibited our signatures to a form of parole stipulating that we
should not make effort to escape, under penalty of death, during such
time as we were out for exercise, on the third or fourth day after our
arrival we went out for a walk under conduct of Lieut. Kruggel.
Beeskow is a country town of four or five thousand inhabitants, and
possesses certain streets picturesque and paintable. There is a
red-brick church, with a steeple and a great sloping roof. On the old
walls, which still stand, are a series of towers, on the largest of
which, as if presiding over the town, were two storks, who gazed at us
as if with curiosity over the edge of their nest.
On this first morning we elected to visit the playing-field allotted
to the camp, which is situated about a mile distant from it. To the
professional eye of one of our number, an old internationalist, it will
serve for football, but not for cricket.
On the other side of the road, behind a _Gasthof_, and just on the edge
of a strip of forest, there was a tennis court, but it had obviously
not been played on for many a day. We at once commenced clearing the
ground, a task in which we were soon being aided by _mein Herr_ of the
_Gasthof_--who is proprietor of the court--his wife, and his daughters.
One of the girls has a rake, which she playfully aims at Lieutenant
Kruggel, who promptly throws up his arms and cries, “_Kamarad!_”
[Illustration: THE STORK TOWER, BEESKOW.]
As we returned, a bald-headed, elderly gentleman standing behind
the gate of a villa garden spat upon the ground, and treated us to
a mouthful or two of morning hate. Lieutenant Kruggel apologized
profusely. Strange that the civilian should be uncivil--the soldier
never.
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
In the little courtyard three or four white fan-tailed pigeons
fluttered about the roofs, like peace birds prematurely arrived from
oversea, while on the other side of the barbed wire was a small colony
of rabbits and poultry and pigs, the property of the German guard.
Then there was Jacob, a ferocious and fearless jackdaw with clipped
wings, who was not indisposed to be friendly, however. Certainly we
were companions in misfortune, my wings not less thoroughly clipped
than his. Ultimately, while I read, or even sketched, he would lie on
his back in my hand with his legs in the air, ever and anon opening a
drowsy eye. Long before I had seen them, however, he would have greeted
several of his own kind, if not his own kin, wheeling round the old
tower, and they would return answer.
[Illustration: PRISONERS ALL.]
Sometimes of a morning I would pick Jacob up as I passed to the bath,
and, perched upon my finger, he would participate with me in the
rigorous joys of the cold douche, the water rattling off his back
like rain from an umbrella. Latterly there were two jackdaws, and I
have watched a German sentry feeding them with spiders collected in
a matchbox, swinging them out on their own thread as an angler would
cast a baited line. After the Armistice these two delightful vagabonds
suddenly and mysteriously vanished. Rumour had it that they appeared on
a German table in a German pie!
[Illustration: THE PRISON GATEWAY]
IX ESCAPES AND ESCAPADES
Only one officer ever escaped from Beeskow Camp, and he only by the
dusty and tenebrous passage of Death. He was a Rumanian, and he
actually succeeded in scaling the high wall encircling the _Lager_, but
fell off into the dried moat and broke his neck.
Tunnelling under the ancient wall was the method that seemed to hold
out most promise of success, and a number of efforts were made in this
direction. These were all detected, however, at various stages of the
mining operations. One such discovery led to a regular hue and cry
and the hunt up for possible “holes.” Three or four _Posten_, one of
whom put a facetious finger to the side of his nose, came clattering
into the reading-room on this errand, when we all held up our feet to
facilitate matters! In explanation of the gaping hole found behind a
cupboard in one of the dormitories “rats” were suggested.
A new _Feldwebel_ who came to the camp seemed to have received strict
injunction to look daily at the bars of the windows to make certain
that there had been no tampering with them overnight. Thus he had
a habit of dropping in at unexpected moments to the library, the
dining-hall, or the dormitories, but always with an air of looking for
some one or something else. Assuredly he did not wish to impute to us
the using upon the windows of anything so unfriendly as a file.
One morning he came suddenly into our room, walked awkwardly and
self-consciously to the window, by which was standing a deck chair;
then, casting a quick, sidelong glance at the barred pane, he said
smilingly in German, “A very good chair,” and so departed.
[Illustration: THE MARIENKIRCHE, BEESKOW]
This _Feldwebel_, by the way, although he arrived in July, came in like
a lion, and went out like a lamb, turning out to be the gentlest
German of them all. He was black-bearded as Thor or Odin, and at
his first parade, on the appearance of the Commandant and staff,
he bellowed “_Ach-tung!_” in a stentorian voice, which, if it did
not make us shake in our shoes, certainly caused us to smile in our
sleeves. Even the camp officers were amused, and Lieut. Kruggel laughed
outright. Next morning the poor _Feldwebel’s_ “_Ach-tung!_” was so
subdued and so robbed of its virility, that it was more stimulating to
our risible faculties than that of the day before. He had obviously
been requested to modify his powerful “word of command.”
THE FLIGHT THAT FAILED
One day I had been sketching the interior of the Marienkirche at
Beeskow, a sentry with loaded rifle sitting by me in the silent church.
He informed me that he also was an artist, but with his feet and not
his hands, and that he had danced at the London Hippodrome. That night,
after roll-call, the German, Lieutenant Stark, expressed a desire to
see the drawing.
As it was dark, I practically impelled him for a few paces to
the arc-lamp at the gate, at the very moment when three Captains
courageously made an effort to pass through the building used as an
office, which gives on to the garden, from whence access to the road
would have been comparatively easy. A further diversion was created
by a Lieutenant falling down in the court as if in a fit, though this
was nothing but a feint. The office was occupied by Germans, however,
and, softly and politely closing the door behind them, the trio turned
back. Captain Brown, by reason of his great stature--he was six feet
six inches--was readily recognized, and next morning the three officers
were brought up for attempting to escape, and sentenced to three days’
confinement in the “Tower.”
Imprisonment in this old strong place, by the way, was not looked upon
as a very grievous punishment. In fact, but for the disability of being
deprived of the daily walk, it was an improvement on our ordinary
condition. The prisoner had a room, a bed, a table, and a chair to
himself; a lamp, which he could keep burning long after “lights
out,” and meals sent up to him by a member of his mess punctually at
the appointed times. Then, as librarian, I allowed certain latitudes
in the supply of literature. To Captain Brown, as appropriate to
his position, I sent Tighe Hopkins’ “Dungeons of Old Paris”; then,
relenting, and remembering that he was a Scot and an Edinburgh man, I
followed this up immediately by Stevenson’s “The Master of Ballantrae.”
[Illustration: THE LATE LIEUT. W. L. ROBINSON, V.C. (A FELLOW-PRISONER
AT BEESKOW LAGER)]
Another bid for freedom was made by Captain R., to whom for the purpose
I lent a red neckerchief and a civilian cap, which had somehow escaped
the authoritative eye and got through to me. R.’s scheme was to secrete
himself under a table covered with a blanket, at which a quartette
was playing a belated game of “Bridge” in the court under one of the
lamps and in close proximity to the barbed fence, cut the wire, and lie
hid in the shrubbery until such time as he might find opportunity of
passing out of the gate.
We had just sat down to dinner, when the violent ringing of the
_Appell_ bell announced to us that the plot had been detected. Next
morning I met a German soldier carrying a yard or two of barbed
wire--like a line newly baited--with which to replace the cutting
made by the Captain, and at parade a camp order was read notifying
all concerned that no more tables or chairs would be permitted in
the courtyard. Almost immediately thereafter, amid the groans of the
British officers, began a ruthless cutting down of the few shrubs and
saplings which adorned the yard and which could conceivably afford us
any hiding.
Even Lieut. Kruggel’s sunflowers and creepers, which provided a hedge
of privacy for his little cottage, had to be sacrificed, to his great
distress and disgust. In the afternoon three pumpkins sat forlornly
upon the three steps of the Lieutenant’s cottage, all that had been
left to him of horticultural adornment!
On another evening in October an officer, disguised as a German
_Posten_, boldly approached the gate with the somewhat optimistic hope
that he would be permitted to pass out unchallenged. He was detected
by the sentry, however, and came running back, taking off his disguise
as he fled. When the guards ultimately reached his room for a search,
he was playing “Patience.” Before making his venture he returned me
his library book, which, I observed with interest, was the Iliad.
Unhappily, there was to be no Odyssey for him on this occasion.
One morning at breakfast a civilian arrived in the dining-hall,
accompanied by a sentry, to execute some repairs upon the gas stoves.
He turned his back for a moment; the _Posten_ is reported to have
looked lovingly and longingly into a pot of rice, and lo, presto! a
couple of pairs of pincers belonging to the plumber had disappeared. No
trace of what they called the “tongs” being forthcoming before morning
roll-call, a search was instituted, during which time, except for the
senior officer of each room, we were excluded from our quarters. The
pincers were discovered next day, but for two mornings we were deprived
of our walks abroad.
RAGGING THE COMMANDANT
There is a piece of music of amazing eccentricity and extravagance,
yclept “By Heck,” by Henri. It is what is known as a “Fox Trot,” and,
as recorded for the gramophone, is played by the Metropolitan Band. We
were sufficiently mischievous one morning to arrange that it commence
its erratic riot at an open window immediately the word “_Achtung!_”
from the _Feldwebel_ announced the arrival of the Commandant on parade.
The scheme worked beyond wildest imaginings. One blow from the hammer
upon the old coulter, and we tumbled out--and fell in. Simultaneously
with the second stroke the door of the Commandant’s room opened, and he
emerged, for all the world after the fashion of the little male figure
which used to issue from the old-fashioned weather-house when the day
promised fine, or foul, I forget which. It was certainly to be foul
this morning.
[Illustration: CARICATURE OF THE CAMP COMMANDANT. By a Rumanian
officer.]
“_Achtung!_” We came to the salute, and simultaneously there came a
burst of mirthful music from the window. The effect on the Commandant
was electrical. He shook his fist at the open window, and in two or
three seconds had as many convulsed sentries tearing up the stairs to
stop the ribald strains. Meanwhile, with thumping of timpani, drum-tap,
cat-call, cock-crow, whistle, and motor-horn, the gramophone ground out
its litany, until at last it was pulled up with a jerk. The Commandant
had the instrument commandeered and sequestered in the tower, but
later, yielding to the plausibilities of Lieut. D., he returned it. “I
think I like theatre better in the morning,” was the new interpreter’s
comment.
The mere sight of our somewhat careless parade seemed sometimes
sufficient to throw the Commandant into a frenzy. One morning a
Lieutenant was caught smoking by the old man, who swung his arms
furiously, and passed sentence of three days’ confinement in the tower.
To relieve the tedium the prisoner must have taken a flute with him,
for towards evening melancholy notes floated from the barred window,
the air being “The Close of a Perfect Day!”
“HIS EXCELLENCY WISHES”
On a certain day in August, the result doubtless of our continual
complaint as to conditions in the _Lager_, His Excellency General
Waldhausen, Inspector of Prisoner of War Camps, paid us a visit. Rather
a soldierly type this old General, with gruffness and kindliness
apparently continually contending for the mastery. He shook hands with
the Colonel and some of the senior officers, and asked the name of each
of the others--to what purpose I cannot conceive, as most of these
names could convey nothing to him.
“His Excellency wishes that you are to gather round!” Thus the
interpreter. We gathered round very intimately, something to His
Excellency’s dismay, who had not anticipated such an encircling
movement.
Then His Excellency opened his mouth and spoke to us, and signalled
with his hand to the interpreter. The interpreter looked more than
usually pallid, and more than usually uncomfortable. He began in
trembling tones: “His Excellency wishes--His Excellency wishes--His
Excellency wishes you to know that we consider you no longer our
enemies.”
His Excellency casts glances, first at the interpreter, then at us, to
see whether his magnanimity has been rightly understood.
Then he talks again, and the interpreter, with knocking at the knees
and dismay in the eyes, essays to interpret.
“His Excellency wishes--His Excellency wishes--that you do obey
strictly the prescriptions of the camp.” The staff smile; His
Excellency looks suspicious. “Have they rightly understood?” One
of the staff suggests to him that some of the English officers are
laughing. Gruffness predominates at once.
The interpreter, more visibly nervous than ever, is incited to try
again. “His Excellency wishes--His Excellency wishes--His Excellency
wishes that----”
His Excellency fumes; His Excellency wishes that the poor
interpreter--now almost in a state of collapse--commit his message
to paper before he commit further indiscretions. There is a lengthy
confabulation and concoction of phrase, and ultimately the interpreter
reads stammeringly:
“His Excellency wishes you to know that he considers you as no longer
our enemies. His Excellency wishes you to know that he will do
everything he can possibly for your comforts. His Excellency wishes
you to strictly observe the prescriptions of the camp.” Thereafter His
Excellency gives audience, and, as a result, it is understood that a
card system of parole will be adopted; that an effort will be made to
combat the plague of fleas, and that otherwise there will be immediate
reform.
[Illustration: NARROW ALLEY, BEESKOW.]
X IN CHURCH--A POLISH BAPTISM
Once a month we were privileged to attend the ancient Marienkirche,
where a service modelled as nearly as might be on the English Church
evensong was conducted by the German Lutheran pastor. The service,
including the sermon, which only lasted three minutes--a model brevity
for homilies--was sympathetic, simple, and not difficult to follow for
anyone with a slight knowledge of German.
As not infrequently, I probably received most benefit and benediction
from matters extraneous to the ritual. My ears would be assailed by the
sharp, almost metallic, tapping upon the windows of the leaves of the
elm tree outside, which may have sported thus to the winds of a century
or more. My roving eyes sought the Last Supper upon the reredos,
whereon it was to be observed that one of the Twelve is handing a
morsel to a dog, while the Disciple whom Jesus loved has his arm
affectionately through that of his Master. The interior of the church
is entirely white, with here and there a quickening and vivification in
a note of red or blue or brown on the altar, the pulpit, and the organ.
After the service, I wandered up the old wooden stairs to the choir
and organ loft, remarking the carven names and other havoc wrought by
generations of choir boys, and, indeed, impressed with a sense that
their roguish spirits were tripping up before me.
The organ is old. On the manual the sharps are in white, the naturals
in black. The blowing arrangement consists of a succession of three
movable beams, on which I had a glimpse of the old blower, like some
ancient, dilapidated god chained to his task and making ascent of
interminable flights of stairs. The organ had been stripped of all
but the very smallest of its metal pipes for the making of munitions;
doubtless they have gone hurtling through the air to deeper diapasons
than they ever sounded here!
In the ambulatory is an ancient and crude wooden Calvary; a great
tributary box “Für die Armen,” much bestudded with nails, and dating
from Luther’s day; also cases with medals of Beeskow men who have
fought for the Fatherland from the Napoleonic Wars onward. In the
pulpit is a quaint old hour-glass of four glasses; in the vestry a
church clock centuries old.
As we returned from one of these services the interpreter--the third
in succession--told me that as a young man he set out to adventure to
Iceland. He got as far as Swinemunde, when he met a young lady, and so,
as he said, “I got engaged instead.” “Such things happen,” he added
reflectively. I could only express the hope that never since had he
got into such hot water as he might have experienced at the Geysers!
The interpreter’s wife, by the way, was Madame Reinl, who has sung at
Covent Garden in such parts as Isolde, and who for a number of years
was a _prima donna_ in Berlin.
FOR THE DEAD
The Sunday after the signing of the Armistice a score of us attended
morning service. We had seats in one of the galleries facing the
pulpit, so that we could participate without being too conspicuously
present. As it was, the congregation evinced no undue curiosity, though
the three or four choir boys in the organ loft seemed to accept us
gratefully as something of a spectacle for the enlivening of a dull day.
The congregation was very sparse, and consisted mostly of elderly
women, sombre, sorrowful, almost emblematic figures; sad-faced, black
clad, lonely. The vast white interior seemed cold--was cold, so that
the organist, in his high latitudes, kept on his coat, with the collar
upturned, and during the sermon made excursion among the architecture
of the instrument. The pastor looked ill and depressed, and, with
obviously a sad heart, he commenced his discourse, “This has been a
heavy week for the Fatherland.”
On the following Sunday was held the yearly service for the dead.
There were six or seven hundred people present, again mostly women, and
again all in black. Many of them wept silently throughout the service,
others gave way now and again to audible outbursts of grief. I could
only see one living German soldier, but who shall say the spirits of
how many dead were there?
[Illustration: SERVICE FOR THE DEAD]
A POLISH BAPTISM
In our walks abroad we have frequently passed a humble little chapel,
which has been built for the numerous Poles who work on the farms in
the neighbourhood. One Sunday forenoon in October, when hints and
hopes of peace were in the air, I accompanied the padre and the Roman
Catholic party in camp to this chapel, and was witness of a very
interesting and picturesque baptismal ceremony.
The low-roofed room with its humble altar at one end, its walls hung
with the stations of the cross, and perforated with windows showing
the golden dying glories of the trees, was crowded with these rural
folks. The women and girls were wearing quaint and brightly-coloured
skirts and head-dresses showing pathetic effort after fashion and
fitness of attire for the occasion. A virile femininity this, obviously
built for child-bearing. In fact, most of the women seem to be in
an interesting condition, and the officiating priest has no fewer
than five infants to baptize. From these bundles of babyhood, which
look like white bolsters tied with brightly-coloured ribands, comes
a continuous, but not too vehement, crying, which, even to my not
unsympathetic ear, seems something similar to the squealing of little
pigs.
Three women stand up, supported by their lawful lords, ungainly, in
unfamiliar Sunday garments, and diminutive beside their wives. Ever and
anon one of the women performs mystery and miracle with her fingers in
the mouth of her offspring to the temporary appeasing of its rage.
The remaining two women, who are seated, are in deep black, and their
husbands are not forthcoming. When their turn arrives, and they too
stand before the priest, there is something peculiarly pathetic in
the unconscious crying of these posthumous infants whose fathers have
doubtless fallen, just as I can behold the leaves falling from the
trees outwith the windows.
These humble folk, many of them, would desire to remain behind for
our service, but the guard has received special instructions from the
Commandant this morning, and the German soldiers turn them out. One
elderly dame makes a spirited demand for admission, and, the soldier
proving obdurate, she bides her time until his back is turned, then
enters and falls upon her knees facing the altar as if defying him to
turn her out.
The padre gives us a little homily on the approaching peace, with a
further urging of that “Peace which the world cannot give.”
On the march back to our _Lager_ we pass an ancient and dilapidated
hackney-coach, open to display to an admiring world two of our mothers,
with bundles tied with blue ribbon and red, in which the babies have
been entirely buried out of sight against a biting wind.
[Illustration: OLD INN AT BEESKOW, NOW BURNED DOWN.]
ADVENTURES AFOOT
On the outskirts of Beeskow was a great _Kaserne_ or barracks of the
Garde-Feldartillerie-Regiments, from which in the morning we could
sometimes hear the bugle sing reveille. This is not dissimilar to our
own, and carries the same suggestion in it of the ascending sun. In
those dreary and difficult days the same heavy and uneasy suggestion
also, that it falls upon many ears as unwishful to hear it as they
would the Last Trump on Judgment Morn.
Sometimes we would meet a company of German soldiers coming back
from a route march or returning from the shooting range--a likely
enough looking lot, marching stoutly and singing lustily. When the
_Unteroffizier_ saw us he would give the order to march to attention,
which was very smartly carried out. In walking through the town we were
continually followed by the little children, who would clatter after us
in their sabots, in manner reminiscent of the “Pied Piper of Hamelin,”
making demand for “_Kuchen_.” They would even break into our ranks, and
insinuate their hands into our tunic pockets in search of the biscuits
which were sometimes tossed to them.
During a walk one afternoon we were overtaken by a sharp shower,
and sought shelter under the trees around some cottages. A little
girl watched us with a timid wonder, which ultimately gave place to
half-confidence. The rain increasing in violence, the mother threw open
her door in invitation, while she and the little girl retired to the
kitchen, leaving us the lobby, in which we sheltered until the worst of
the storm was over.
One day we met an aged woman bearing a burden of faggots through the
forest. When she cast eyes on us she suddenly put her hand to her
face and burst into bitter tears. One afternoon we passed an old
road-mender, whose carefully built piles of stones had much of the
order and durability of a wall, and on whose bent back was a tangible
token of the passage of years as big as any of his boulders.
On another occasion when we walked to the tennis court the German
Lieutenant’s wife was waiting for him at the _Gasthof_, and the two
partook of refreshment together at a little table under the trees. When
we marched back we found that she was still accompanying him on the
side-walk, which seemed to give to the whole parade a decidedly homely
suggestion.
On Saturday afternoons we played football with the orderlies, when, in
view of my advancing years and other discretions, I occasionally acted
in the more retired position of full back. Pleasanter for me, however,
was it to lie on my back in the forest, watching the young fir trees
swaying to the wind like the masts of ships, while ever and anon they
struck with a noise suggestive of the crossing of swords.
One of our orderlies, by the way, had been captured at Mons, and was a
typical soldier of the period. He and his mate were lying in a ditch,
up to the middle in mud and water, and under heavy fire. “I says to
him, ‘Put a little artificial flower on me grave--I’m fond o’ roses
myself.’” His teeth were knocked out by the butt of a soldier’s rifle,
and he was flung into a church. When he first saw a loaf he “charged
it,” toothless gums and all. He is still in the “eye for an eye, tooth
for a tooth,” attitude towards his enemies. And he has lost practically
a whole set!
Another orderly, who had recently been on commando, showed me his leg,
which was badly scalded. “That’s the sort of thing we do, sir,” he
said, “to prevent being sent down the mines!”
[Illustration: “IN SINCE MONS!”]
[Illustration: KIRCHESTRASSE, BEESKOW. One of many such sketches made
freely in the streets after the Armistice.]
XI THE REVOLUTION
From scraps of conversation with the sentries and the interpreter, we
knew by the middle of October that the Germans would sign an armistice
whatever the terms might be. One afternoon the “Top” and “Bottom”
of the house were engaged in a hockey match. As I stood on the road
watching the contested field, passed me a cart driven by a French
soldier prisoner of war. A German boy, burdened with a great sack of
_Kartoffeln_ for Beeskow, gave hail, and the soldier pulled up and
waited patiently until both boy and burden were on board. As he moved
off he saluted me, and cried cheerily, “Bientôt, la paix!”
I approached Lieut. Stark and asked him when the game was likely to
finish. “I suppose,” said he in his slow, deliberate English, “when
they have won enough.” The German civilian, who had some days before
surreptitiously slipped us a copy of the _Times_, was here again
to-day, and obviously anxious to unburden himself to some one. Lieut.
Stark, however, succeeded in hedging him off until the return journey,
when we in front overtook him on the footpath. While still two or three
yards behind him, I said, “Change your umbrella to your left hand!”
As we passed we were thus able to slip him a couple of packets of tea
in exchange for another copy of the paper, and also to arrange that
in future he place the paper behind a certain tree. These papers were
about a fortnight old usually, but they were very precious to us, and
were circulated in rotation to every officer in the _Lager_.
On Saturday evening, the 9th November, an _Extrablatt_, announcing the
“Abdankung des Kaisers,” found its way into camp, and created some
little excitement. At Beeskow we were within breathing distance of
Berlin, one might say, and we almost seemed to be haunted by a vision
of that haunted man who had striven, in his own egotistical way, to
fashion his country, and who seemed destined to see it shattered into
shards. There was a rumour that the officer at the _Kaserne_ had been
deposed, and, in expectation of trouble, all the shops in Beeskow
closed at six o’clock. In the dark outside we heard two or three shots,
but no one seemed able to explain them.
THE PASSING OF THE COMMANDANT
On Sunday morning, as it transpired, we paraded before the old
Commandant for the last time. Shortly after _Appell_ he was waited upon
by a delegation from the men, headed by a stout corporal who in peace
time is a North Sea fisherman, and informed that his services were no
longer required. With a touch of pride the corporal told me of his part
in the deposition.
When informed that he must resign, “_Warum?_” inquired the Commandant.
This was explained, but he still demurred. “I must wait,” said he, “for
instructions from headquarters.” “We give you your instructions,”
replied the corporal, “and you must go.”
Thereupon the old man wept. “_Er weinet_,” said the corporal, and he
drew a finger from his eye downward to demonstrate. Greater than the
Commandant wept in these days, I take it!
While we talked, standing on the road by the playing-field, came along
the civilian, who succeeded eventually in transferring to my possession
a copy of the _Times_ for 29th October containing a sensational
discussion in the Reichstag, and also a slip of paper folded to a spill
on which he had pencilled the terms of the armistice.
Over the barracks we found that the Imperial flag had been shorn of
its black and white strips, and that only a thin red shred stood out
menacingly in the wind from the staff.
A picket, with arms piled, was posted at the forked roads, and from
the caps of all the soldiers the badges had been torn. These men more
than ever seemed disposed to be fraternal; indeed, as we passed the
_Kaserne_ some of the soldiers at the windows shouted out that they
would be glad to play us a game of football now.
They deposed the Major who was in charge of the barracks, and the
Medical Officer--he of the dashing manner and the Airedale terrier, who
visited us for inoculatory purposes--had also to go. The Major and his
young daughter were in a hotel when the soldiers demanded an audience.
The Major endeavoured to escape by a back entrance, but was held, and
had the humiliation of having his epaulets torn off, while his sword
was broken and the pieces handed to the children standing around. So we
had the story.
In our own camp Lieut. Stark, who was a ranker, and also reputed to
be sympathetic to the revolution, was elected Commandant by the men’s
committee--distinguished by white bands on their arms--in spite of the
fact that Lieut. Kruggel was his superior in rank. The men took off
Kruggel’s epaulets and badges, and then saluted him.
It was in these troublous times that Captain U., who was being
transferred to another camp on account of his health, succeeded
in jumping off the train when it slowed down somewhere in the
neighbourhood of Storkow. The train was stopped, but no very effectual
search was made, and the Captain, retracing his steps, had almost
reached Lubben, when he was overtaken and held up by a gamekeeper on
a bicycle, and carrying a gun. He was brought back to camp, and had
a great reception, particularly from the members of his own mess, we
having prepared a sort of composite meal of breakfast, lunch, tea, and
dinner. U. was looking none the worse for two or three nights’ and
days’ exposure, and attributed his healthful appearance to “having had
something to do.” Lieutenant Stark imposed no punishment, his only
comment being, “This is not the good time for escaping; there will be
peace in two days.”
LATITUDES AND LIBERTIES
Under the new regime our privileges were considerably extended. A
few days after the Armistice, for instance, we were permitted to be
present at a cinematographic entertainment.
The show was held in a rather dull and sad little hall, on the roof
and walls of which, however, some artist had made valiant efforts at
decoration with impossible pots and vases of impossible roses--neither
white, nor red, nor even blue.
Behind the screen was a suggestion of a small stage, on which,
doubtless, tragedy histrionic had been achieved in the days
before tragedy overtook the town and the country generally. A
dispirited-looking woman seemed to be in charge of affairs, and
under her rather anxious direction our orderlies--all out for the
afternoon--wheeled a piano into the hall, on which Lieutenant Davies
and a German soldier, who has studied at the Berlin Conservatorium,
alternately played melodies classic and cinematographic during the
performance. A preliminary notice flung on the screen, “Rauchen ist
Verboten,” went unheeded.
The first film, which gave rather charming glimpses of German family
life, represented the adventures and misadventures of a poor little
girl, who, after drinking a magic elixir, dreamt that she had become
the daughter of a Graf. Mark Twain’s “Prince and the Pauper” in more
modern guise. Second item, the efforts of a policeman to bring home
his sheaves with him in the shape of a very sly and slippery tramp.
The third, a _Lustspiel_ in four most amatory acts, introducing the
customary machinery, so well known to the cinema stage, of love
missives, magnificent motor-cars, bedrooms and bathrooms; keyholes
betwixt these apartments; the never-failing porter with the inevitable
trunk which forms the last inevitable stronghold and sanctuary for the
inevitable hapless lover pursued by the inevitable unhappy husband.
Altogether, not too bad an entertainment for the money, which was
one mark per head--_Lagergeld_, we having not yet been supplied with
ordinary currency. This was the first night I had been out after dark
since my capture, and it was pleasant to step free upon the pavement,
and to see the comfortable lights in the shops. At a second cinema
entertainment, we had--by request--a series of pictures showing German
soldiers at work and play in rest billets.
In the outskirts of the forest stood the Gesellschaft Gasthaus,
with, in the window, announcement of an entertainment in the form of
an acrobatic act by “Les Original Alfonso Geissler.” The handbill,
highly coloured, represented in one part of it, Monsieur, in evening
dress, and with all the suavity of the dove, making request for a
glass of beer from Mademoiselle at a public bar; in a second tableau
discovers him, sloughed of his garb of respectability and, arrayed
in multi-coloured tights, displaying all the cunning and pliancy of
the serpent in marvellous contortions among the barroom properties.
The proprietor informed us that he and his wife and three sons--one
the hero of the handbill--were all travelling acrobats, that they had
appeared frequently in England, and that they were in Sweden when the
war broke out. It was observable that during the entertainment--which,
despite the bill, proved to be entirely cinematographic--the proprietor
obtained his incidental music by making demand upon several of the
talented among the audience.
In this connection a rather notable incident occurred, though here
it seemed to pass without note. A boy of about fourteen, who had
earned his admission by operating the cinema for the major part of
the evening, came quietly forward, took the violin from the rather
faltering hand of a young soldier who had been agonizing for the last
hour, and commenced to play with a sure and virile bow. He proved to be
a friend of our German soldier pianist, and like him has studied at the
Berlin Conservatorium.
SKETCHING IN THE STREETS
I was now allowed to sketch freely in the streets without hindrance or
interruption, save for the presence of the younglings, which, after
all, need not prove distracting or disconcerting. On the contrary,
it may be even stimulating. Their criticism, for one thing, is
largely enthusiastic, and this sometimes proves contagious. “_Fein!_”
“_Hübsch!_” The pencil probably makes effort to prove worthy of such
compliment. Then again, there is generally something patient and gently
apologetic in the presence of a child, while one grown-up looking over
the shoulder is usually sufficient for disconcertment.
I am sketching the Kirchestrasse. The name, however, is not visible
at my end of the street, and I make inquiry of the little girl who
for the last ten minutes has been standing quietly by my side. She
misunderstands me at first, and upon my sketch-block writes her own
name, “Charlotte Reseler.” There let it remain to add the value of a
memory to the drawing.
On one such sketching expedition I was overtaken by a motor-waggon,
packed with German soldiers, straight from the front, who seemed
somewhat surprised to see me thus walking alone through the streets of
the town with a sketch-block under my arm. The waggon was decorated
with fir branches, while chalked upon the sides were such inscriptions
as “Nach der Heimat!” In the streets also were decorations, flags and
fir festoons, and garlands bearing the legend, “Willkommen!” One thing,
however, cannot be lifted from these streets, nor lightened into them,
and that is the dejection of defeat; the flush of victory.
[Illustration: THE OLDEST HOUSE IN BEESKOW.]
I was sketching what is, since the burning of the “Grüne Baum,” the
oldest house in Beeskow. I had hardly started, when the proprietor of
the shop in the lower part of the building came running over, and,
talking too rapidly for my entire comprehension, gave me to understand
at least that he desired something added to my sketch. He disappeared,
and in a few minutes there was unfurled from an upper window a great
chocolate and white flag of Brandenburg. A little boy had all this
while stood quietly by my side, save when, quite unbidden, he went
over, and placed himself by the front of the house, just at the proper
spot, that I might put him into the picture.
He spoke now, but whether for my information or encouragement I know
not.
“England,” said he, “hat gewonnen--Deutschland hat verloren!”
I turned to look at him; he was but nine or ten, yet his voice sounded
so forlornly that to me, standing in this street of gathering dusk and
down-trodden snow, there came a sense of the awful tragedy of defeat!
A SOLDIERS’ BALL
I cannot dance, but there is always a portion of the ball, at least,
to the beholder. Captain Sugrue and I had looked into the _Gasthaus_
at the Railway Crossing. It was an animated scene which met our
eyes. The saloon was decorated with flags and festoons of red roses,
while about eighty couples, composed of German soldiers and their
sweethearts--these last with countenances of a colour to match the
decorations--danced on almost without cessation. Certainly there were
intervals, but these were of the shortest duration. The cavaliers would
approach, possibly with a short bow; more frequently the overture was
merely a smart tap upon the shoulder, and they were off. A little
orchestra of piano, violins and ’cello, was housed on a little stage,
upon which at one time there mounted the Master of the Ceremonies to
announce the finding of a lady’s girdle.
Captain Sugrue and I also made various excursions afoot to townships
within a radius of ten or twelve miles from Beeskow. One of these
expeditions took us to the little village of Radinkendorf, where, after
some research, we found a very modest little _Gasthof_, where an old
woman undertook to supply us with coffee.
Whilst we waited, and she worked her coffee-mill, she invited us in
motherly fashion into an inner room for warmth. Presently the coffee
was prepared, and while we sipped it, “Where do you live?” inquired the
aged woman.
“Zu Beeskow,” I replied. “We are prisoners.”
“Ah, das macht nichts,” said the dame kindly. “Das macht nichts. We
are all human. Warum ist der Krieg?” distressfully, and touching her
forehead with her finger as if in despair of a solution. “Why is the
war? Why? Why?”
I could not tell her.
On another occasion Tim and I footed it to the small town of Friedland,
which at one time, apparently, has had a Jewish population. As we sat
together in the dusk by the stove in the _Gasthaus_, there entered
a German soldier obviously fresh--but as obviously fatigued--from
the front. He approached, recognizing our calling, but anticipating
kinship, and was rather nonplussed on discovering our nationality. He
told us that for the last days his company had been retiring at the
rate of thirty kilometres a day, and leaving almost everything behind
them.
Before returning we paid a visit to the _Rathaus_--in the Middle Ages
the Castle of the Herren von Köckeritz. With his walking-stick Tim
measured the walls--which are of amazing thickness--to the no small
surprise of several members of the clerical staff who appeared at the
window.
[Illustration: MURILLO’S “IMMACULATE CONCEPTION OF THE VIRGIN.” Painted
by a French officer, prisoner of war, on the outer wall of the camp in
1915.]
[Illustration: CAPTAIN TIM SUGRUE]
XII IN BERLIN DURING THE REVOLUTION
On a Friday evening of early December, my dear friend and
fellow-prisoner, Captain Tim Sugrue, and I conspired to take French
leave from the German prison _Lager_ and make a bolt for Berlin. Six
o’clock next morning found us at the station; a little diplomacy and we
had obtained tickets--singles only, as we must return by a different
route.
From Beeskow to Berlin is a run of two hours and a half. For the latter
part of the journey we are with business men. There is unfolding of
newspapers, and we catch sight of occasional headlines. Street fighting
in Berlin last night; 14 killed, 50 wounded. Anything may be expected
to happen to-day--which means that anything may be expected to happen
to us.
As we pass Karlshorst an obliging German directs our attention to it
as the German Derby; as we enter the environs of the town he has a
pointing hand for various features of interest.
Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse. As we make our way out through the barriers
among the crowd, a tall, handsome gentleman and a young lady--equally
handsome--who is obviously his daughter, seem to convey to us a
telepathic smile of friendliness. In a few minutes we find them beside
us in the throng; there comes a whisper in not entirely perfect
English, “Thank God, Britain has won!”--and then they are gone. With
a quick understanding the girl collector at the barrier permits me to
retain my ticket as a souvenir.
We have had no breakfast; we are hungry; we make so bold as to enter a
restaurant near the station. The waiter attends us, without apparent
curiosity, and as of long custom. For three marks we have a fried
haddock, some salad, and a cup of coffee. We could easily have paid
as much in London for as little--we could easily have paid more. For
proof of my veracity to future historians, I slip a menu card into my
pocket.
From the instruction of a rather intelligent _Posten_ at Beeskow I have
taken the precaution to prepare a rough plan of the centre of this
most centralized of all great cities. We pass up Friedrichstrasse, and
at the point where it intersects Unter den Linden pause for a moment,
undecided as to left or right. It immediately becomes apparent that
we must not pause, even for a moment. We are already the centre of a
curious little crowd.
“What can I do for you, Captain?” Hat in hand, a youth of seventeen or
eighteen approaches. We explain that we are simply up for the day, so
to speak, and as I can see what is obviously the _Dom_ on our left, we
make off at a sharp pace down the boulevard.
The people have seen British officers before; it is only when it dawns
upon them that we are unaccompanied by a guard that their eyes begin to
open. There is no hint of hostility, however. Twice during the day we
are directly asked by civilians if we are in advance of a possible army
of occupation.
The _Dom_ is the St. Paul’s of Berlin, but it is less impressive. The
organist is here, however, blowing what are doubtless his own very
real personal sorrows to the roof. As he passes into a fugal passage
I observe that, as at Beeskow, the pipes of the instrument have taken
flight.
The picture gallery is closed to-day, but entrance is to be had to
the gallery of sculpture, and entrance we make. Tim is obviously
impatient; sculpturesque life is not sufficiently full-blooded for him.
Consequently I approach an attendant, and request that he discover to
us the most celebrated items of his collection. Whereupon is opening of
doors, unlocking of cabinets, up-pulling of blinds, and letting in of
more light generally.
Most celebrated of all is a Grecian sculpture of 480 B.C., taken from
the Louvre in 1870. When I suggest, as delicately as may be, that there
is danger of it having to make further journeyings, the attendant
sighs, and softly replaces the covering curtains. Young Hercules
killing the snakes; a Badender Knabe; Göttin als Flora ergänzt;
Trauernde Dienerin vom Grabmal der Nikarete aus Athens; a few hasty
impressions--but how refreshing; white clouds in a summer sky--and Tim
has haled me forth into the streets.
On the galleries, as on all similar public buildings, has been posted a
placard in vivid red, “Nationales Eigentum!” National Possession.
It almost might seem as if in these penurious days for Germany,
inventory of the national possessions had been taken, and, having been
found to be but scanty, decision had been arrived at to hold fast to
what few poor things appeared to be real and tangible! Everywhere
also one finds vehement posters in red, inciting--to order! Pictured
soldiers, open-eyed with terror, open-mouthed with message, beating
alarum drums; sailors frantically waving flag signals of distress.
Palaces, memorials, museums, bridges; with much that is to be admired,
Berlin seems so heavily encrusted and over-weighted with ponderous
decoration, as to convey an impression almost that the ground may
give way underfoot. That the solid foundations of things have given
way must be more than an impression with many of these drawn-faced,
dejected-looking passers-by. In the architecture there is a suggestion
of London, of Paris, of ancient Rome--a suggestion of ancient Rome
that is strongest, however, in a chill and deadly feeling of decline
and fall. On many of the buildings, and particularly on the Königl.
Marstall, is the markings of machine-gun fire--the guns have played
upon the windows quite apparently like fire hose for the putting out of
a difficult conflagration. On one of the palaces is stuck a sheet of
paper written upon boldly and carelessly with blue pencil:
“FÜR EBERT UND HASSE.”
_Nationales Eigentum_ with a vengeance! Whether they are using the
Royal suite for bureau or bedroom, or both, I know not.
At all points, and indeed acting as police for the city, are soldiers
and sailors of the security service with white bands on their arms.
Large parties of these men patrol the streets, with a peculiar movement
in the column due to juxtaposition of the measured military step, and
the easy swing of the sailor. We would pass such companies with a
more or less unseeing eye, but we are continually assailed by cheery
greetings of “Wie geht’s?” and “Guten Morgen!”
If we pause before a public building, a soldier or sailor immediately
approaches and asks if we desire to enter. In suchwise we get glimpse
of a number of the important public institutions, including the modern
and rather magnificent Royal Library. In the Royal Opera House, despite
the revolution, performances are announced for to-night of Verdi’s
“Otello,” for to-morrow (Sunday) night of “Rigoletto.”
Some of the streets running off Unter den Linden bear marks of
yesterday’s fighting; some of them are still big with agitation;
groups and queues of gesticulating soldiers and civilians. We pass the
Legations and through the Brandenburger Tor into the Tiergarten, and
take leisurely view of the Reichstag, looking deserted and dejected,
and as if all the glory of debate had departed from it for ever. Here
is the Siegessäule and the Denkmal to Bismarck, Moltke, and the long
lineage of German warriors. Here also is the Hindenburg statue, looking
decidedly forlorn and rather foolish. Tim and I decide that it would
hardly be expedient for us to drive in a couple of nails!
LIEBKNECHT AND ROSA LUXEMBURG
Now approaches a great procession of men and women, silent, sad,
slow-moving, sombre-hued save for the red banners which here and there
droop into the ranks and show through the trees like gouts of blood.
It is the Spartacusbundes Party, with Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg at
their head. They are doubtless come to mourn their dead of yesterday
and to demand redress and revenge. The procession winds its way through
the paths, and ultimately the speakers take up position beside the
statue of one of the Margraves, where Liebknecht’s father agitated
before him in less agitated times than these.
Liebknecht speaks now, fiercely and with arms outflung and disturbed as
the leafless branches of the trees which form a background. There is a
wild scream and the crowd commences to stampede. The motor-waggons of
the Security Service of the Social Democratic Party are coming up, grim
and grinning with machine-guns. A terrified crowd is a very terrible
thing.
My last experience of its blind whirl and bewilderment was when the
Germans shelled Béthune with big guns at long range on a market Monday
of August, 1916. We looked like having trouble now. “Through force of
habit they will doubtless take their sighting shots on us,” I said to
Tim.
The soldiers have had orders, however, not to shoot unless they were
attacked, and the crowd gradually regains reassurance. Standing on the
outskirts of the throng, I bought an album of views of Berlin from a
poor little girl, and immediately after a similar collection from an
old woman equally poor and equally insistent.
My last recollection of Liebknecht is of a gesticulating volcanic
figure, and of a livid face, with the wild eyes and the distorted mouth
of a Greek tragic mask. He was killed a few weeks later, within a few
hundred yards of where we heard him speak.
We have during the day made incursions to various cafés, the
“Victoria,” and the one-time very cosmopolitan “Bauer.” In this last,
at just an hour before train time we are seated, at question whether,
our adventure having proved so successful so far, it be not financially
possible to carry it into another day. We decide that if we go fasting
during the morrow--a proceeding familiarity with which has rendered not
too fearful---we shall have purses sufficient to pay for a bed in the
hotel, and our return fares to Beeskow.
We have been sitting meanwhile amid a cheerless concourse. The people
enter, take their refreshment without any appearance of refreshing, and
so depart. “See,” says a Russian, just released from Ruhleben, who has
entered into conversation, “how they are dazed; how they are dreaming!
All of Germany is as a great empty building!”
The streets are crowded, and there is much excitement in the air.
Outside the Friedrichstrasse Station we make purchase of a series of
severe caricatures of the Kaiser, watched by quite a crowd who seem to
recognize the irony of the situation. We have no difficulty in getting
into a hotel, and we make no delay in getting into a very inviting bed.
[Illustration: A CARICATURE OF THE KAISER. Bought in the streets of
Berlin.]
CAPTIVITY DE LUXE!
Behold next morning two British _Gefangenen_ in the capital of Germany,
pillowed luxuriously in bed, pulling the bell-rope insistently, and, a
waiter appearing, making demands for an immediate serving of coffee.
Not only so, but having search made in the German Bradshaw for the hour
of departure of the train which was to convey us back to prison, and
the time at which we could attend a celebration of Mass.
St. Hedewick is a great circular cathedral, not without a certain
impressiveness, particularly when crowded as it was on our arrival. The
service was in progress, and from the great organ came a sound like a
rushing mighty wind. When we emerged it was raining, and we decided to
call as invited on our Russian friend of yesterday. We made our way
to the address circuitously and laboriously, receiving direction--and
misdirection--from a sailor sentry, who left his post and accompanied
us for a ten-minutes’ march to put us on the proper car. “I have to
Hartlepool and Gateshead been,” he said.
The Russian family were delighted to see us, and extended what
hospitalities they could, generously and graciously. They advised us to
leave Berlin by the afternoon train, as the revolutionary storm which
was obviously brewing was expected to burst blood-red that day. “I will
see you to the station, then I shall not leave the house again.”
A nephew entering at this time, he undertook charge of us. As we stood
on the platform of the tram, there tore alongside of us a motor-car,
driven furiously, and full of soldiers and sailors who bombarded
us with copies of the revolutionary paper, the _Rote Fahne_ (Red
Flag), and with leaflets making call for a great mass meeting of the
Spartacusbund.
I secured a copy. Among the named speakers were Rosa Luxemburg,
Liebknecht, Levi, Duncker.[1]
Arrived at the Gorlitzer Station, we found that there would be no
train till evening, and at our guide’s suggestion we three drank
chocolate--at five marks for three cups, including a 50-pfennig tip
to the waiter--and listened to the melancholy music in the great café
which used to be called the “Piccadilly,” but which at the outbreak of
the war was renamed “Das Vaterland.”
Returning to the station, we decided that our friend had best make
purchase of the tickets, to prevent possible conflict.
While we waited there leapt upon us an aggressive young woman.
“Are you English officers?” she demanded.
“We are,” said we.
“Thank God for that!” she cried. “I’m English too, though I’m married
to a German; and I love my country better than I love my husband, and
think I shall come home!”
As this presented a marital problem too profound for our plumbing, we
made the pretext of our friend’s return with the tickets to beat a
hasty retreat.
We arrived back in Beeskow about ten o’clock, rang the bell and
demanded admittance as good and dutiful _Gefangenen_. The _Posten_
opened the gate, and when he beheld us twain he very decidedly and
indubitably closed a knowing eye!
FREEDOM AND FAREWELL
_It has come at last!_ And now that it has at last come it has
not brought that immediate and amazing emotion of exultation
which we had imagined and anticipated so long. We are leaving for
_Home_--_To-day_--in a few hours! The brain receives the message,
grasps it apparently, and passes it on to the heart. The heart hears,
doubtless, yet it only says, soberly, even sadly, “Yes, that is so.”
Perhaps later, after many days; after months; in after-years, maybe,
there will be the full realization that we have come out of captivity,
and we shall be moved even to tears!
Meanwhile, our boxes have to be filled; our cupboards have to be
emptied. My last recollection of the German soldiery--these legions of
a would-be modern Rome--is of their standing around while we piled into
their outspread arms our old pots and pans, boxes of broken biscuits,
and fragments of hardened bread. _Sic transit!_
Four o’clock. We pass through the gate of the old Bischofsschloss for
the last time. As we go down the street one of the officers shows me
the great padlock which he has carried off in his pocket as a souvenir!
If he had been a Samson, he would doubtless have preferred the gate
itself!
The people stand at doors and windows and wave us farewell. Auf
Wiedersehen! Some of the passers-by insist on shaking us by the hand
and wishing us God-speed. We have become familiar to them--and not too
fearful--during the past five months. At the station there is something
of a crowd; as the train moves out there is something of a cheer.
By nine o’clock we are once more in Berlin. We hire a whole squadron of
dilapidated hackney coaches and move in somewhat whimsical procession
for an hour through the already dark and almost deserted streets.
* * * * *
Warnemünde. We pass immediately from the train to the quay, where the
Danish ship _Prins Christian_ is lying with steam up. A Danish officer
is in waiting at the gangway, and as each officer answers to his name
he passes over the ship’s side--a free man once more.
Lieut. Kruggel descends to the saloon to bid us good-bye. He shakes
hands all round.
“Es ist vollbracht,” I said.
“Es ist vollbracht,” he replied.
And with a military salute, he turned, and, a suggestion of sadness in
the stoop of his shoulders, made his way up the companion ladder.
THE END.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Two days later, in the train for Copenhagen, I gave up my seat
willingly to a little boy with a face of great intellectuality, who
was obviously in a very delicate state of health. This was accepted
gratefully for the lad by the two Danish gentlemen who had him in
charge. They told me that he was the son of Herr Duncker, Professor
of Philosophy in the Berlin University, and one of the leaders of the
Spartacusbund; that they were taking him to Copenhagen, where his elder
brother already was, partly because he was suffering from malnutrition,
but principally for safety, neither his father nor mother expecting
to survive the Revolution. A sister of eighteen or nineteen stays
with her parents. The boy’s guardians also informed me that the lad,
who was only nine years old, already wrote verse which would not be
discreditable to a young man, and that his brother had in a few months
become the chief scholar in the Copenhagen school.
* * * * *
BALLADS OF BATTLE AND WORK-A-DAY WARRIORS
By Lieut. JOSEPH LEE
_SOME PRESS OPINIONS_
_The Times._--“There is real fibre and lifeblood in them, and they
never fail to hold the attention.”
_The Spectator._--“Of the verse that has come straight from the
trenches, the BALLADS OF BATTLE are among the very best.”
_Morning Post._--“There is staunch stuff in this little book of
verse from the trenches.... Here is a soldier and a poet and a
black-and-white artist of merit, and we wouldn’t exchange him for a
dozen professional versifiers who ... cannot write with a spade or draw
with a bayonet or blow martial music out of a mouth-organ.”
_Manchester Guardian._--“There is no shadow of doubt but that Sergeant
Joseph Lee’s BALLADS OF BATTLE are the real thing.... In its way this
little book is one of the most striking publications of the war.”
_Leeds Mercury._--“Many war poems have been published of late, but few
approach the BALLADS OF BATTLE in point of imagination, and vitality of
expression. There is a grim realism in the Sergeant’s poems, as well as
an intensity of vision that is at times almost startling.”
_The Bookman._--“Sergeant Lee is in the succession, spiritual
descendant of those balladists and lyricists who have made the name of
Scotland bright.... As for the manner of the book, it is good--it is
very good, it is notable.”
_Glasgow Herald._--“Sergeant Lee’s verses are as frank and straight
as we would wish a soldier-poet’s work to be; but behind all the
humour and grim realism there is a poet’s ideal humanised by a Scot’s
tenderness, and the serious poems are worthy of any company. Their
courageous cheerfulness is inspiring.”
_The Tatler._--“A little volume which I shall always hope to keep.
Mostly these vivid little poems were composed well within the firing
line; all of them are haunting--some because of their jocular
soldier-spirit, others for their wonderful realization of the silent
tragedy of war.”
_Sheffield Telegraph._--“A human, throbbing thing from the trenches. It
strikes vibrant notes of laughter and tears; now it weeps, and now it
is full of the exuberant joy of life; it is a living document authentic
and deep.”
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
The one footnote has been moved to the end of the text and relabeled.
Illustrations have been moved to paragraph breaks near where they are
mentioned.
Punctuation has been made consistent.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typos have been corrected.
Changes have been made as follows:
p. 83: “untolerable” changed to “intolerable” (an intolerable outrage)