My Three Years in a German Prison

CHAPTER XXIII
HOPE DEFERRED

“When?”

“The day after to-morrow–Saturday. This news was telephoned a moment ago from the Kommandantur, and I have been instructed to inform you of the fact.”

I could not resist shaking the non-commissioned officer’s hand to thank him for the good news he brought to me. My door was hardly closed before I was standing on my chair at the window calling to my companions in captivity–that is to say, the men with whom I was in daily contact. I shouted to them the good news. They called back their congratulations and were sincerely happy at my good fortune.

The following day we appointed a real feast day when all the British prisoners should take part in celebrating the promise of my liberation. We decided to hold a reunion in my cell. We even resolved to organize a dinner! Remember, this was in 1916, when everybody in Berlin was subjected to food rationing. Our only diet was the prison menu. This meant that we had a real problem on our hands if we were to prepare an acceptable meal.

Invitations had been sent to all the British prisoners requesting the pleasure of their company to lunch that same day, “in Parlor No. 669, in the International Hotel of the Stadtvogtei, to meet Mr. Beland and celebrate his approaching departure for England.”

The invitation cards bore the following instructions: “Each guest is requested to bring his plate, knife, fork, tea-cup, glass, and his own bread. Salt will be supplied on the premises.”

My table was placed in the centre of the cell. We had covered it with paper napkins, and had succeeded in obtaining some canned meat. At that time this was a marvelous accomplishment, believe me.

The dinner was a very joyful one. Toasts were proposed and congratulatory speeches were made. The following afternoon I was granted leave to go to the city. For the first time, after twelve months’ incarceration, I was allowed to walk the streets! It was late in May. The vegetation was luxuriant and for the first time in a year I enjoyed the liberty of walking among the verdant foliage and flowerbeds of the square adjoining the prison. Never before had nature appeared so wonderfully beautiful. I was tempted to smile even at the Germans who walked about the streets.

Two hours later I returned to the jail, and learned that my departure, which had been fixed for the next day, would be delayed owing to the fact–so I was told–that a certain document had not yet been signed by the high command. It was represented to me that the signing of this document was a mere formality, and my release was a thing decided and assured. I was to be allowed to leave on the following Wednesday.

On the Tuesday, I was ready to start. My baggage was packed. Then I was advised once more that the missing document had not yet arrived; that I must wait a few days longer. Of course, I was very much distressed at this repeated delay, but I tried to be patient through the ensuing two weeks, which appeared centuries to me.

One day I was called into the office of the jail. Major Schachian had come to explain that the Kommandantur in Berlin had really decided to give me my liberty, to allow me to go back to my family in Belgium, and particularly to be near my wife, who had been ailing for six months–but a superior authority had now over-ridden this decision.

One can conceive my disappointment. I remarked to that officer that being a physician I was being detained contrary to international laws; that, moreover, I had on several previous occasions received assurances from the military authorities in Antwerp that I should not be molested; that I had practised my profession, not only in a hospital, before the fall of Antwerp, but since that date among the civil population of Capellen. The officer did not attempt to deny all this, but he said: “You practised medicine for charity; you did not practise it regularly.”

Was it conceivable that a man of his position and intelligence could make such a remark? I was astounded, and dared to reply: “I always understood the liberty of physicians in time of war was guaranteed by international conferences, because physicians are in a position to relieve the physical sufferings of humanity, and not because they may be allowed to make money.”

The officer saw he had made a bad break, as the popular expression has it. He attempted to effect a retreat in the best order he could. He was really embarrassed, and left me, while I returned to my cell, my heart bowed down by deception and disappointment.

A full year elapsed before any substantial change was made in my life of captivity.

CHAPTER XXIV
A COLLOQUY

But one day the old jail physician, a very kind man, Dr. Becker, visited me in my cell. We had previously talked together on medical matters. He knew, of course, that I was habitually called to attend the sick during the twenty-three hours he was absent every day from the prison. He had placed at my disposal his little dispensary. Indeed, from the medical point of view, one can truthfully say that between the prison doctor and myself diplomatic relations were never severed.

The object of his visit to me now was to inquire about my health. He had noticed that my general appearance left much to be desired.

“Well, how are you?” he asked on entering my cell.

“Bad,” I replied.

“I am truly sorry,” the doctor remarked. “I have observed lately that you appeared to be far from well.”

“The fact is,” I told him, “I cannot sleep nor eat. I am very nervous, and I feel weak and depressed.”

The old German practitioner eyed me critically through his spectacles, and it seemed to me that through his glasses I could see reflected a feeling of genuine sympathy.

“But,” he urged, “you are a physician. You know, perhaps, just what it is that is particularly ailing you.”

“Nothing more than the effects of continuous, close confinement,” I answered. “You know, I have been deprived of fresh air and exercise for the past two years.”

“But, surely,” he exclaimed, “you go out when you feel so disposed!”

“What do you mean?” I asked him. “Do you profess to believe that I have the privilege of going out of the prison for exercise, according to my free will?”

“I do,” the doctor replied.

“Well,” I rejoined, “all I have to say is that I cannot understand how you, the doctor of this prison, have never learned that during the two years I have been here I–like every other prisoner–never am permitted to go on the street. I may say that during this period the only occasion on which I was allowed to go outside was just one year ago. I was then granted special leave to visit the stores to buy a few things necessary to my departure for Belgium. I had been promised liberty, and the promise was not fulfilled. With the exception of this outing of two hours, I have been confined within the walls of this prison continuously for the past two years. You know how vitiated the atmosphere of these corridors becomes, since hundreds of prisoners must traverse them every morning as they are engaged in the work of cleaning their cells after thirteen hours’ seclusion therein. You know the yard in which we are permitted to spend a few hours each afternoon. You know as well as I do that when one has walked seventy paces he has traversed the whole limit of the three sides of the triangle. This yard is bounded by walls seventy-five feet high; thirty-five toilet cabinets, as well as the cell windows and the kitchens, open on to it, and I believe its atmosphere is even worse than that I breathe in my cell.”

“Well,” said the doctor after listening to me with an air of pained attention, “I am surprised. Why don’t you make application to the authorities asking to be allowed to go into the city, for a daily walk? I will support your demand.”

I thought the opportunity favorable to tell the doctor what I thought of the arbitrary conduct the authorities had shown towards me.

“Well, you will excuse me,” I said, “if I say that I cannot act upon your kind suggestion. It has become impossible for me to ask any favor from the German Government.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because each and every fair, reasonable and just request which I have hitherto made has been either ignored or refused. God only knows how many requests and petitions I have addressed to the German authorities during the last two years.”

“What did you ask for in particular?” he inquired.

“First,” I said, “I protested against my internment, pointing out that in my quality of physician it was contrary to international laws to keep me in captivity. In reply, I was told there was no documentary proof that I was a doctor. This was at the beginning of my captivity. Through the American Embassy I obtained from the Canadian College of Physicians and Surgeons, and from the university from which I was graduated, the documents which established that I was a licensed and practising physician. I was informed in the month of October, 1914, that these documents had been remitted to the competent authorities here, in Berlin. I then renewed my demand for liberty. I repeated over and over again my requests, but without any other results than that of seeing, after two or three months’ anxiety and trouble, an officer of the Kommandantur who came and took my deposition to prove why I came to Belgium in the first place and what I had done in that country since my arrival. All these things the authorities had known for a long time. I had to sign an insignificant transcript of the proceedings made by the officer, who left me with an ill-concealed air of mockery at my misfortunes.

“My wife,” I went on, “was taken ill. For many months her illness advanced. The news received each week from my children and the doctor indicated clearly that recovery was hopeless. I begged to be allowed to visit my wife. I received no answer to my request. During the last two weeks of her illness I was notified by telegram that the case was urgent and I was urged to hasten to my wife’s bedside. I besieged the Kommandantur with daily petitions for leave of absence, but no answer was vouchsafed. I offered to pay the expenses of two soldiers to accompany me from Berlin to Antwerp, and to return the next day. This request was curtly refused. My correspondence was held up for about twelve days and during that critical time I was without news of my family, and after these twelve days of unspeakable anguish an officer informed me that my wife was dead. I implored him to go immediately to the Kommandantur and ask permission to accompany me to Antwerp and Capellen that I might be present at the funeral. His reply was ‘Madam was buried two days ago!’

“You will understand, doctor, that after being treated in such an inhuman manner, it is quite impossible, while I maintain my self-respect, to ask for any favor from the German Government. I was refused justice when I entreated for what was just. I have nothing to demand now.”

My statement perceptibly saddened and embarrassed the old doctor. Apparently I had opened his eyes to a phase of German mentality which he had not hitherto realized. He hesitated for a few seconds and then promised that he would at once take steps to alleviate my suffering and relieve some of the pressure of the hard prison regime.

He fulfilled his promise. Two days afterward instructions were received which bore this out. At the same time it should be remembered that the German authorities were mindful of the possibility of reprisals from Great Britain after the fact had become known in London that my health was seriously threatened by my internment. The new instructions now issued to the jail authorities stipulated that I was to be permitted to go out of the jail on two afternoons of each week, under the escort of a non-commissioned officer. I was to be allowed to walk in a certain park, but must not communicate with anybody during my promenades. Moreover, the officer and his prisoner were to make the short journey to the park and return by railway. I, of course, at once availed myself of this privilege to go out and breathe the fresh air twice a week, and this contributed to a very appreciable extent to re-establish my health, physically and mentally.

CHAPTER XXV
INCIDENTS AND OBSERVATIONS

“Then be seated,” he continued. “The day before yesterday I received a letter from one of my fellow-countrymen who is resident in Toronto. He informs me that he has learned from the Canadian newspapers that you are interned here, and he asks me to interest myself on your behalf. My friend adds that he, himself, has not received the slightest annoyance from the Canadian Government. Will you tell me if there is anything I can do for you?”

“You could, no doubt, obtain for me my freedom,” I told him.

“I would like to do it,” he answered, “and I will do all that I can in order to be useful to you, but I really do not know to what extent I may succeed. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Nothing that I know of.”

“Is your cell comfortable?”

“I occupy a cell in company with three others.”

“Would it be more agreeable to you if you were assigned to a cell exclusively your own?”

“It would, indeed,” I said, “for then I could work with more comfort.”

Mr. Wassermann then left me, and a few days after our interview I was removed into a cell reserved for myself alone on the fifth or top floor of the prison. Here the atmosphere was purer than in the other cell, as there was better ventilation. It was brighter, and I had a wider outlook of the sky. I occupied this cell for three years.

The prison was heated by a hot-water system, which was shut off each day at about two o’clock in the afternoon, so that in the evening the atmosphere generally was very cold, so cold in fact, that frequently I would have to go to bed as early as seven o’clock, directly the cells were locked, in order to keep myself warm.

We were allowed to write two letters and four postal cards each month. This was a rule which applied to all prisoners in Germany, without distinction. A letter addressed to a foreign country was detained for a period of ten days, and all correspondence sent by us or directed to us was minutely censored, detention of the letters and censure of the letters being practised as a “military measure.” During the whole period of my imprisonment I never received one single copy of a Canadian newspaper, although I know now that quite a number were from time to time addressed to me.

Courses of instruction in French, English, and German were given daily at the jail, but only on very rare occasions were there any religious services, either Protestant or Catholic. I recall only two or three occasions during the whole of my captivity on which I had the privilege of attending chapel, which was situated in another section of the prison.

German newspapers of all shades of political thought were received in the jail, whether pan-German, Liberal, Conservative or Socialistic in their tendencies. But we were not allowed to read either English or French newspapers, though we knew the big dailies of Paris and London were available at the principal news stands in Berlin. This does not mean, however, that I did not get a glimpse at both English and French newspapers during my captivity. It sometimes happened that one or other of the incoming prisoners had either a London or Paris newspaper concealed in his pockets. There were other means also through which we were able from time to time to obtain newspapers from the allied countries.

Christmas is always celebrated with great pomp in Berlin. On Christmas Eve the prisoners enjoyed a small celebration amongst themselves. There was a Christmas tree, and two or three officers of the Kommandantur, accompanied by a few ladies, came and distributed gifts, which were, for the most part, of the nature of provisions for the most needy of the prisoners.

On Christmas Eve, 1915, enough food was distributed to give each prisoner a good meal. In 1916, when food had become scarce, there was no distribution of provisions, but each prisoner received as a gift an article of underwear or a new pair of socks. In 1917, there was a Christmas tree, but no gifts of any kind. The economic situation in the interior of Germany had become such that neither food nor clothing were available for the prisoners.

In the course of one of my walks in the park during the last year of my imprisonment, I saw the then idol of the German people–the great General Hindenburg. Accompanied by an officer, he was driving in an automobile along the street which borders the Tiergarten. My escort and I were on the sidewalk when the famous general passed. I had a distinct view of his features. When we got back to the jail my companion announced with great gusto to his fellow-officers that he had seen General Hindenburg. As they received his announcement with incredulity, I was called upon to corroborate the statement of my escort, and then they looked upon me with actual envy. According to their way of thinking, I was one of the luckiest men on earth! The mere sight of so great a general, they thought, should be regarded as a red-letter day in a man’s life history! Such was their veneration, respect, and admiration for the chief of staff. Bismarck in all his glory was never arrayed in such a halo of glory as Hindenburg wore in the mind’s-eye of the Germans of that day.

The German people are not demonstrative. They are taciturn and dreamy. One day I was on the station platform waiting for the train to take me and my guard to the park. The noon editions of the newspapers were on sale and were being bought with avidity. They contained some sensational story or another. It was, according to the best of my memory, the report of the Austro-German offensive directed against the Italians in November, 1917. The advance on the enemy and the capture of forty thousand prisoners were announced in scare headings.

After glancing over the news myself, I turned to observe the attitude of the readers around me. I continued my observations as the train moved out of the station, and I did not notice one smile among the whole crowd of Germans; nor was there any apparent desire on the part of any man to discuss the events with his neighbor. To them the news appeared to be one of the most natural events in the world. I asked myself: Have these people commenced to realize that all these victories do not bring the war any nearer to the end they desire? Or, has their feeling of enthusiasm become deadened by three years of unrelenting fight? I leave it to the reader to appreciate now, in the light of subsequent events.

The first American citizen interned in the Stadtvogtei was an unhealthy-looking man whose name I now forget. It was during the absence of Mr. Gerard, the United States Ambassador, in the month of October, 1916, I believe. This man claimed that he never would have been interned if Mr. Gerard had been in Berlin. He often expressed to us fears as to the security of Mr. Gerard. He was under the impression that Germany desired his disappearance, and that on his return to Germany the United States Ambassador ran a great danger of being sent to the bottom of the sea. He was convinced that Mr. Gerard was extremely hated in Berlin and was considered the enemy of Germany’s interests.

It may not be out of place to mention here that at one time there was quite a controversy in the German newspapers concerning Mrs. Gerard. Certain sheets had accused Mrs. Gerard of lack of good manners, and this to the extent of having on one occasion pinned the Iron Cross to the collar of her pet dog and to have promenaded the streets of Berlin with the animal thus “dressed up.” The alleged incident created such a stir that the semi-official newspaper “Le Gazette de l’Allemagne du Nord” published an editorial on the subject. It was therein stated that the allegations against Mrs. Gerard were false and that Mr. and Mrs. Gerard had conducted themselves always in a manner absolutely above reproach.

Very seldom a day passed without one of the non-commissioned officers submitting this question to the British prisoners, “When shall we have peace?” The answer was invariably the same: “We did not know.” How could we? However, the question gave the Prussians an excuse for prolonging a conversation, during which we would be told that Germany wished for peace, but that the obstacle was England. On more than one occasion several among us–notably a Belgian named Dumont, who never minced his words–retorted: “But why did you start the war?” On one occasion a non-commissioned officer, to whom this question was directly put, insisted that Germany never wished nor planned the war, neither did she start it.

“You are quite right; you are a thousand times right as to starting it,” cried Dumont, giving expression to his anti-German sentiments, “it was not Germany that started the war. We, the Belgians, started it!!!”

The remark was greeted with general laughter, and the non-commissioned officer, in confusion, turned on his heels and left us.

CHAPTER XXVI
TALK OF EXCHANGE

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well, why are you called there?” he insisted.

“Because I am to be granted my liberty,” I hazarded.

“You are quite right,” he said. “But please, do not state that I told you this, for if it were known I had spoken I should be severely reprimanded, perhaps actually punished, for having communicated this news to you.”

At the Kommandantur, which I now visited for the first time, I was at once ushered into a hall and into the presence of Captain Wolfe, the officer who had been in the habit of visiting the jail from time to time in order to take depositions of prisoners. He appeared, as far as the jail was concerned, to be the “big boss” of the institution. That man left a very unenviable impression on the minds of all the British prisoners who passed through the jail. As for myself, I shall find it very hard to forgive him for having ignored the multiplication of requests I addressed to him during my three years of captivity.

As I approached his table he looked up, but he made no sign nor uttered a word until I politely bade him good morning. Then he condescended to speak.

“Good morning,” he replied. “I have asked that you be brought here in order that you may be informed that you are soon to be liberated.”

“When?” I asked.

“Next week.”

“What day?”

“Thursday.”

“Is this certain?” I ventured.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, quickly.

“I am asking you if this time I am really to be liberated?” I said.

“I have told you that your liberation is to be granted; for what reason do you ask now whether it is certain? Do you doubt my word?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied, “I recall the fact that two years ago you communicated to me at the jail news identical with the announcement you now make to me. Nevertheless, I am still your boarder.”

His eyes sought the ceiling vaguely, as one searching his conscience in order to ascertain if there were any reason for self-reproach. Then with a feeble smile he admitted that what I said was true. “Well, on this occasion,” he said, “you may rely upon what I tell you.”

The fact was, I was to be exchanged for a German prisoner in England. The terms of the exchange had been fixed and it was to take place immediately. I had nothing to add, except to express my satisfaction at being, at last, free to leave Germany.

In reply to a question I put to him, he told me that my status of a member of Parliament and a former Minister in the Canadian Government had been responsible for my long detention. He further said that all the documents, papers, catalogues, books, correspondence–everything, in fact, which would be likely to be of any service to me after my liberation, and which I might wish to take with me, would first have to be submitted to the censors in Berlin.

Consequently on returning to the jail, I started to make a selection among the papers and books I had collected and the letters I had received in the course of my captivity. I made up a fairly large-sized parcel of them and sent the package at once to the censor. Everything was duly censored, placed in envelopes, carefully sealed and initialed, and returned to me at the jail.

This all took place on Saturday. On the following Monday, First-Lieutenant Block, commanding officer at the jail, hurriedly came to my cell, saying: “I have good news for you. The German Government, through me, offers to allow you to pass through Belgium, on your way to Holland, in order that you may have the opportunity and pleasure of visiting your children near Antwerp. They are now awaiting an answer from you. Do you accept?”

“My answer will be short,” I said. “I accept with thanks.”

Three years had elapsed since I left Capellen. During that long time I had not been allowed to receive one visit from my daughter or the children of my wife, who had remained at Capellen.

“This will take a few days,” said the officer, “because the several military posts which you will pass, in Belgium, will have to be notified.”

“I have no objection to wait one, two or three weeks if I may have the precious privilege of seeing my children again before going to England,” I said.

“I will communicate your answer at once to the department of Foreign Affairs,” the officer then remarked.

Three days later, the same officer informed me that he had been chosen to accompany me to Brussels and thence to the frontier of Holland. He appeared particularly happy in anticipation of fulfilling this duty. As to myself, I had no objection to make, as this officer had been in contact with me for more than two years, and it would be preferable to travel with some one with whom I was familiar. Moreover, First-Lieut. Block had united his efforts with my own when I solicited permission to go to Belgium during the long illness of my deceased wife.

I had waited through one week, and then another, when the officer–always the same–arrived one day with a gloomy countenance which reflected bad news for me.

“Bad news?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he said; “bad news, surely.”

“I know what it is,” I said. “They refuse to let me pass through Belgium.”

“You have said it.”

I could not repress a movement of impatience and annoyance.

“How is it possible that such a thing can happen?” I asked. “Didn’t you inform me two weeks ago that the German Government had already decided to let me pass through the occupied territory so that I might go and see my children?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then what authority is it that is so highly situated that it can override a decision taken by the Government?”

“It is the military authority!”

“Well,” I said, rather dryly, “when shall we start for Holland?”

“As soon as you are ready.”

“Then, we will leave this evening or to-morrow. The sooner the better, now,” I told him.

Our departure was accordingly arranged to take place on Friday night, May 9.

CHAPTER XXVII
TOWARDS LIBERTY

On the Friday, some hours previous to the time of my departure, I obtained from the sergeant-major permission to receive in my cell, between 7 and 8 o’clock in the evening, all the British prisoners. The reader will remember that the cells were usually locked for the night at 7 o’clock. These men then assembled in my cell and there for this last hour we talked over the events of the war and the probable length of their detention. Notwithstanding the joy I felt at the prospect of getting out of this hell, I regretted leaving behind me those with whom I had shared the lonesomeness of captivity, shared the hardships received at the hands of our jailers, and deprived of liberty and the beneficence of their mother country.

The train was to start at 9 o’clock, and my escort and I were to leave the jail at 8 o’clock. It was at this hour that I said farewell to these worthy fellows. I was a free man. They were to remain prisoners. We were all under the influence of a powerful emotion.

The train was due to depart from Silesia Station. I was accompanied thereto by three military men: an orderly, a non-commissioned officer, and an officer. The officer was to accompany me as far as the frontier, and when we reached the station, he said he proposed to ask the authorities to allow us to occupy a compartment exclusively to ourselves, as we would have to spend the whole of one night on the train. With this end in view, he interviewed the station master, and when the train arrived at the station this official considerately placed a compartment at our disposal.

The officer had to give what was accepted as a valid reason of state in order to obtain this privilege. It was the transportation of a prisoner of British nationality through German territory. This was sufficient. The conversations “this British prisoner” might have overheard had he been allowed to mingle with others on the train, might have been indiscreet and of a nature calculated to harm the German interests should they be repeated in England!

Whether that was the correct view of the matter or not, or whether other reasons prompted my companion to make the demand, certain it is that a whole compartment was placed at our disposal, and in order that it should not be “besieged” by other passengers a notice was affixed to the glass pane of the door opening into the corridor of the train to the effect that in the compartment there was a British prisoner. To this intimation was added the one word: “Gefahrlich,” which in German means: DANGEROUS!

When I afterward read this notice, which had been posted against myself, I could not repress a smile.

All trains which leave the Silesia Station en route for Holland must cross the city of Berlin and pass in front of the famous Stadtvogtei prison. I was aware of this fact, and when we reached this point–the train was then traveling at full speed–I stood at the window to get a last look at those dark grey walls which during three long years had separated me from the outer world. To my great surprise, I saw that the sergeant-major had allowed my former companions in captivity to open one of the windows on the fifth story of the jail and there they stood waving their handkerchiefs as a sign of farewell. “Poor, unhappy fellows!” I said to myself.

The next morning at 8 o’clock, we arrived at Essen, the town where the famous Krupp works are situated. Here we had to change trains. The incoming train was late, and the officer and I had to pace up and down the platform of the station of that great city for fifteen or twenty minutes before the train, which was to convey us near the frontier, arrived. Then we took our seats and reached our destination at about noon. But my troubles were not yet over. I had to wait a little longer to obtain absolute freedom.

Through a mistake by the orderly my baggage had been checked through to a more northerly station. Inquiries were made by telegraph and we received a reply from the officer in command of the military post addressed advising patience and the baggage would be returned the following day. Thus we were compelled to remain for the night in this German frontier village of Goch, where it was a serious problem to obtain mid-day and evening meals as we were without food cards. However, when one, after prolonged confinement, is breathing the air of comparative liberty, and knows that the morrow will give him absolute freedom, he can, without much difficulty, overcome the pangs of a hungry stomach!

At noon the next day the trunks which had strayed returned to me safely, and I was ready and anxious to continue the journey over the remaining two or three miles which separated us from the frontier where final inspection was to take place and adieux said.

I was on that day–Sunday, May 11, 1918–the only passenger bound for Holland. The train consisted of a locomotive and one coach. We halted at a small temporary station and my personal belongings were duly deposited in line. The arrival of “a prisoner of British nationality,” had been anticipated, and German inspectors of both sexes surrounded me and my baggage. The duty of the women was to examine female passengers, and as they had nothing to do in the present instance they remained as spectators, passive, but interested!

The inspection was very minute, and, I must add, was not intelligently executed. The non-commissioned officer charged especially to inspect my baggage proved himself to be an extremely stupid fellow. In one of my trunks he observed a small leather note-book bearing the gold-lettered inscription: “Tagebuch,” which means a diary. He put it on one side with the apparent purpose of confiscating it. I protested, and I asked why he wished to retain what was really a new note-book, as there was no writing in it? He replied that the little book “contained printing,” that his instructions were to confiscate everything written or printed.

What stupidity! I thought to myself. I again pointed out that the note-book contained not one word of writing, and that the only “printed matter” was the small engraved label on the cover. But this did not convince the stupid fellow. He failed to grasp the fact that the passing of this innocent, unspotted little note-book could not possibly menace the German Empire with dire calamity!

Lieutenant Block, who accompanied me and knew me well, was manifestly annoyed. I ventured to remark: “I exceedingly regret such procedure as this in the examination of my personal property, because under such a process you must necessarily confiscate all my shirts, all my collars, and all my cuffs.”

The man looked bewildered.

“I don’t understand you,” he said. “Why must I confiscate those articles?”

“Because, like the note-book, they each and every one have something printed thereon,” I said. “And what is more serious, instead of the printing being German, which you understand, the names printed on the shirts, collars, and cuffs, are those of English or American firms, which you may not understand.”

The inspector was embarrassed, even vexed. The color rushed to his face and he handed the note-book to Lieut. Block with a gesture as who would say: “Here, take it, and the responsibility that attaches to it. If you like to run the risk of leaving this Britisher in possession of the note-book, do so. I wash my hands of the possible danger!”

Lieut. Block returned the book to me without a moment’s hesitation.

A large number of photographs addressed to me either from Canada or from Belgium were confiscated, although they had previously passed the censorship in Berlin. A certain number of photographs, however, escaped the eagle-eye of the inspector. They included those which the reader will find illustrating this story. As to the other printed or written documents which I brought out of Germany, they were subjected in Berlin to a severe censorship. They were those documents which had been placed in sealed envelopes and checked by the chief censor. These were passed at the frontier without further examination.

The moment had now arrived for me to go my way. The frontier was but a few yards distant. My baggage was put back into my compartment, the officer accompanied me to the door of the coach, we exchanged a few words, shook hands, and separated.

I will use a sentence here to testify on behalf of this officer, First-Lieutenant Block, that in the course of my sufferings he did all that lay in his power to obtain from the authorities the privileges I repeatedly applied for. Our efforts, as I have shown, were unavailing, but this was not Lieutenant Block’s fault.

Mr. Wallace Ellison, who published his “Recollections” in Blackwood’s Magazine, has given similar testimony regarding Officer Block. His two years’ contact with the prisoners of British nationality gave him an opinion of us far different to the misguided views he held previously.

The train started and an hour and seven minutes later we were at the frontier station, in Holland. From the window of my compartment, I could see inside the station the little customs inspectors of Queen Wilhelmina!

I was free! What a grand feeling is that of liberty after three years’ captivity! Every tree, every leaf, house, seems to smile on you!

At five o’clock the same afternoon, I was in Rotterdam.

CHAPTER XXVIII
SOME RECOLLECTIONS

It will be remembered that in 1916 the Kaiser issued a proclamation pronouncing the reform of Parliamentary institutions in Prussia, and particularly the uniformity of electoral franchise for all citizens. Fear of the people is the beginning of political wisdom.

In Prussia, the representatives of the people are elected by three classes of electors, and although the Social-Democrats registered a sufficient number of votes to give them a third of the representation in the Prussian Diet, they were only a few deputies.

The Prussian Government, in conformity with the Imperial proclamation, had introduced a bill providing for the reform of the electoral franchise. The majority of the Prussian Parliament refused to adopt the projected law. At that time there was a violent controversy carried on in the German press on this subject.

There were in Germany then several newspapers with large circulations which could be designated as Liberal–that is to say, they were in favor of the principle of responsible government, not in Germany alone, but also in Prussia. They fought continually and stubbornly against the pan-German doctrine. I may cite the Frankfurter Zeitung, the Berliner Tageblatt, the Vossische Zeitung besides Socialist newspapers like the Volkszeitung and the Vorwaerts. At the jail we received all the German newspapers. I was a subscriber to the Berliner Tageblatt, and this newspaper was the only one on my table. I had much admiration for the publicist, whose name is well known in France–Theodore Wolfe. This journalist repeatedly condemned German autocracy in his articles–he did it so often that his writings became popular with all of us. He was frequently so outspoken that we really expected to see him arrive one fine day in our midst.

The officer during his daily visits observed the Tageblatt lying on my table, a fact which more than once gave rise to an exchange of views between us on the political institutions of Germany, and particularly on the Parliamentary situation as it existed in Prussia at that time. The Prussian Diet had just refused to adopt the draft of the bill above referred to. That same day the visiting officer entered my cell, his face beaming with smiles. He rejoiced–words were not strong enough, he said, to express the satisfaction he felt at what had happened. Prussia was to maintain her old system, the autocratic system under which this man was convinced she had achieved prosperity and greatness; and this it was that pleased him so much.

It is very difficult for us, accustomed, as we have become, to a democratic system, to conceive the voluntary abdication, on the part of a man of the standing and importance of Lieutenant Block, of all participation in the administration of public affairs. Here was a professor, a man between 35 and 40 years of age, who confessed and glorified in the fact that he had never voted! And when I expressed great surprise, and endeavored to ascertain from him what were the real motives of his abstention, he replied, with apparent sincerity: “Have we not got our Kaiser, who is at the same time King of Prussia, to efficiently govern the country?”…

Another instance which reveals something of the real heart of a Prussian officer is the following: We were at the epoch of the catastrophe which fell upon Britain when Lord Kitchener was drowned off the Scottish coast. This news was reported to me, like all other news of a disquieting character, with great eagerness by the visiting officer. Others may be amazed at the lack of tact, to say the least, here shown, as we in the prison were each of us amazed in turn.

“Kitchener has been drowned,” announced the officer with glee.

The news drew from me a pained expression of sorrow.

“How regrettable,” I cried.

The officer drew himself up to his full height, and his eyes flashed as he retorted, “Nicht fur uns. Nicht fur uns.” (“Not for us. Not for us.”)

“Listen,” I retorted. “The intention of my remark was to convey to you how regrettable it is that a soldier of the worth of Lord Kitchener, instead of finding a glorious death on the battlefield, should have perished in the manner reported.”

“Nicht fur uns. Nicht fur uns,” the Prussian insisted.

Many months passed. The man had evidently forgotten the incident of Kitchener’s death. One morning he came to my cell with face long, and expression sad. “Have you heard the awful news?” he asked me. “Richthofen has fallen.”

Richthofen, Germany’s most famous aviator, was dead after seventy-five great aerial victories.

“Yes, Richthofen has fallen,” the officer repeated. “Is it not regrettable?”

“Nicht fur uns. Nicht fur uns,” I answered without hesitation.

“How can you say that?” he said. “Is it not a matter of regret that a great hero like Richthofen should disappear?”

“Nicht fur uns,” I said again, not knowing what might be the outcome of my boldness.

“Why do you talk like this?” the officer asked.

“I am merely following your example,” I told him. “When I ventured to express my regret at Lord Kitchener’s death, regret that a soldier of his valor had been drowned, and not killed in the manner of the valiant soldier he was, you made use of this expression. To-day Richthofen has fallen, but he fell in the arena where his skill and genius and valor earned for him an immortal name. Acknowledge that his loss is regrettable for Germany, but you cannot expect the countries at war with Germany will experience regret in the same sense that you feel it, although I am sure they will pay just tribute to his valor as an aviator.”

The officer left me a few minutes afterwards. I do not know if he appreciated the appropriateness of my remarks.

One day I had a sharp discussion with Captain Wolfe, of the Kommandantur at Berlin. This officer occupied the position of a judicial war counsellor and held a high and responsible office at the Kommandantur. He was naturally vested with considerable authority. Nobody realized this fact more than those who were detained against their will, and in spite of just protests, in the jail on Dirksen street. Well, on the day to which I am referring Captain Wolfe visited the jail and condescended to hear me. That was his manner of answering the numerous petitions I had addressed to the military authorities during the previous months. Periodically I would undertake against the authorities what may be called an “offensive” for liberty. On this occasion I submitted to Captain Wolfe the fact that I had been arrested in a neutral country–that is to say, Belgium. I said that no foreign subject could lawfully be made a prisoner there, at least not until the military authorities had given all foreign subjects a fair opportunity to leave the territory.

“But Belgium is not, and was not, a neutral country,” Captain Wolfe protested.

“I do not understand you,” I said.

“Belgium,” he answered, “had become the ally of Britain and the enemy of Germany.”

“I still fail to understand you,” I said.

“Have you not read the documents which were taken from the archives at Brussels?” he asked. “These official documents constitute a solemn confirmation of my pretension that Belgium was allied with Britain.”

As a matter of fact, the Gazette de l’Allemagne du Nord (Die Nord Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung), a semi-official newspaper, did publish during the course of the winter of 1914-1915 a series of documents alleged to have been found in the archives of Brussels. No doubt these documents were likewise published in all the allied countries. They purported to contain the draft of a convention between a military or naval officer of Britain and the Belgian authorities concerning an eventual landing of British troops at Ostend. I had previously taken cognizance of these documents and incidentally of a commentary by a Belgian military expert to the following effect: “The landing of British troops in Belgium was only to take place after the violation of Belgian neutrality by Germany.” This correction removed from the documents all vestige of hostility against Germany.

After the publication of these documents comments from official sources were published in the press, and it was said, amongst other things, that the contents were known to the competent authorities in Germany before the declaration of war. I accordingly asked Captain Wolfe if this were true?

“It is,” he answered.

“Then how is it,” I further asked, “that the Imperial Chancellor, Von Bethmann-Hollweg, on August 4, made the following declaration before the Reichstag: ‘At the moment I am addressing you German troops have perhaps crossed the frontier and invaded Belgium’s territory. It must be acknowledged that this is a violation of the rights of the people and of international treaties. But Germany proposes and binds herself to repair all the damages caused to Belgium so soon as she shall have attained her military designs’?”

It is impossible to describe the officer’s embarrassment.

“Well,” he mumbled, in an effort to submit more or less of an explanation, “it was because Belgium also peremptorily refused to let us pass.”

The tone and manner of his “explanation” indicated plainly enough that Captain Wolfe was capitulating.

In the pan-German newspapers more particularly, this attitude of Von Bethmann-Hollweg before the Reichstag was much criticized. It was declared that such a statement constituted a sufficient reason for his immediate release from Chancellorship.

CHAPTER XXIX
OTHER REMINISCENCES

During the years 1916 and 1917, and for the first part of 1918, Germany possessed one god and one idol. The god was Emperor William and the idol was Hindenburg. It will be remembered that at the outbreak of the war Hindenburg was a retired general leading a peaceful life at Hanover. Thence the Emperor recalled him from retirement and relative obscurity and gave him the command of the German forces operating in Eastern Prussia. At that time the Russians occupied part of the Baltic Provinces. The Emperor, in examining the theses made by the different German generals, discovered that Hindenburg, a quarter of a century previously, had treated in his thesis the subject of an invasion of Eastern Prussia. He then sent for Hindenburg and committed to him the task of liberating the eastern territory from the occupation of the Russians.

We all know that Hindenburg accomplished this task victoriously and acquired for himself, particularly as the result of the famous battle of Tannenberg, a fame which surpassed that of any other Prussian general. Pressure was then brought to bear on the Emperor by his entourage with the object of placing Hindenburg at the head of the general staff; and, as a matter of fact, by a movement of the hand, Emperor William dismissed Von Falkenhayn, who was at that time chief of the general staff, and replaced him by Hindenburg.

The victory of Tannenberg was followed by several others, including that of Rumania, and then it was that the population of Berlin, no longer able to restrain their enthusiasm for Hindenburg, decided to erect in his honor a colossal monument on one of the public squares. The testimony of popular admiration took the shape of a wooden statue, forty-one feet in height, built at the end of Victory avenue, at the foot of the immense column known as the Victory Column, erected after the war of 1871 to commemorate the victory of the Germans over the French.

Opportunity was given to me on several occasions in the course of the outings I was allowed to make during the last year of my captivity, to observe with what veneration the people surrounded this misshapen, inartistic monument standing in the centre of the Tiergarten. Twice every week, as I have previously explained, I was privileged to take a walk around the garden, under the escort of a non-commissioned officer, and on no occasion did I neglect to walk towards this statue. A large number of people, particularly old men and women, accompanied by young children, crowded at the foot of the column near this immense wooden image. They would look at it, examine it with the air of people admiring its proportions and artistic qualities. But what was more curious and interesting was the means adopted to collect charity funds through this new Trojan horse. A scaffolding surrounding the statue furnished means for all to climb to the level of the head and contemplate from this close view the severe features of the great general.

At the foot of the scaffolding there was installed a species of ticket-office where one could purchase nails at a cost of one mark each (twenty-five cents). The purchaser of a nail was handed a hammer and accorded the privilege of driving a nail into the statue. The children particularly showed a great love for this sport. They could be seen crowding noisily round the ticket-office awaiting their turn, grasping in their little hands the silver coin with which to buy the nail. The ceremony of driving in the nail assumed a special character of patriotism. Hence it was quite a sight to see with what pride a child would return from performing the operation amidst the plaudits of the old men and the mothers. In this way large sums of money were levied and it is pertinent to say that Hindenburg was literally riddled with nails. One could choose the particular spot wherein to drive the nail–the feet, legs, body, arms, or head. I remember that copper-headed nails were driven into the head, copper not being so scarce at that period as it became afterwards.

The art reviews of Berlin never dwelt at any length on the artistic qualities of the monument. As a matter of fact, it was an ugly object. One day, however, a violent controversy was started in the newspapers between two sculptors as to which of the two was the originator of this genial idea. What an ambition!

It is no exaggeration to state that the popularity which Hindenburg enjoyed in Germany at this epoch was greater even than the veneration with which the Emperor himself was surrounded. Indeed, several non-commissioned officers often told me confidentially that Hindenburg’s popularity was very much greater than that enjoyed by the Emperor. The ascendency Hindenburg acquired over the imagination of the people never, in fact, ceased to disturb the mind of the Emperor. For this reason, at each new victory achieved under Hindenburg, Wilhelm would hasten eagerly to the battlefield and from the point where the victory was won he would flash a telegram to the Empress with the studied object of impressing on the minds of his subjects that his was really the strategic genius responsible for the success achieved. So much was this true that whenever a military operation developed itself in favor of Germany, either in Galicia or in Rumania, we knew how to predict, a day or two ahead, that a sensational despatch from the Kaiser to the Empress would be published in the newspapers. Rarely were we mistaken.

Among the prisoners of British nationality at the Stadtvogtei was one who, on several occasions, was suspected of exaggerated sympathies for the cause of Germany. He had become very unpopular, and many British prisoners refused to speak to him or have anything to do with him whatever. One day Mr. Williamson, to whom I have referred in a previous chapter, was called into the office to receive a package of provisions which had just arrived from England. After his package had been examined, another parcel was offered to him with the request that he carry it to the Englishman–the one I have referred to as being under suspicion–whose cell was situated on the same floor as that occupied by Williamson. The latter, who spoke a little German, formally refused to take charge of the package, saying to the non-commissioned officer, and in the presence of others: “I will not take the package, for I do not wish to have anything to do with this bloody German.” Williamson then left the office, taking with him only his own package.

The incident caused some commotion, as the non-commissioned officers reported the unsympathetic remark made by one prisoner towards another. On the following day all the prisoners of British nationality were requested to go down to a cell on the ground floor, and there the officer in charge of the prison addressed to us a very severe remonstrance regarding the incident. I recall one remark in particular. It was to the effect that “he did not venture to hope that we would openly renounce our sympathies towards Great Britain, but he would not tolerate for one instant any unkindly, disrespectful remark against Germany.” He cited the case in particular of Mr. Williamson and also that of Mr. Keith who, he said, was born in Germany, who had profited from Germany’s hospitality, who had received his education in the Public schools of the empire and who, nevertheless, every time an occasion offered itself, manifested his antipathy towards the country of his adoption. The officer finally menaced us with the remark that whoever was guilty in the future of disrespectful remarks would be severely punished.

This attitude of Officer Block created further prejudice amongst the British prisoners, and two of them, whose names I will not mention, organized a huge joke at his expense. Through a very clever stratagem, one of the pass-keys was juggled from one of the non-commissioned officers. This key would open every one of the doors inside the prison, but it would not open the outer door. With the aid of this key the two prisoners in question conceived the idea of unmercifully teasing the officer.

With much difficulty we managed to smuggle into the jail a copy of the London Daily Telegraph twice a week, in spite of an interdiction of all English and French newspapers. Needless to say, the Telegraph was circulated amongst all the British prisoners, and after each and every one of us had read it, the operation was crowned as a great joke against Officer Block himself.

By the aid of the aforesaid key, then, the door of the office would be opened during the breakfast hour while the officer was away, or during the closing hours of the day after he had left the jail, and the forbidden Daily Telegraph placed on his desk.

The second time this was done the officer became very angry and placed a non-commissioned officer at his door during his absence. This created a little difficulty, but our friends were not to be rebuffed by such a small matter.

As I tried to explain in a previous chapter, the section of the jail we occupied was triangular in shape. At seven o’clock in the evening a non-commissioned officer started to close the doors. He would first close the doors on one side of the triangle, and after doubling the angle he would start the operation on the second side. It was at this moment that one of the prisoners, occupying a cell on the third side, still open, would come surreptitiously with the famous key, open the door of one of the locked cells, and at the same time give the key to the occupant of the cell. He would then return hastily to his own cell. This was done, of course, very quickly and without being seen by the non-commissioned officer, who continued closing and locking the cells on the third side of the triangle, and then, under the impression that every prisoner was locked up, he would leave the jail.

In the course of the evening, or a little later, the British prisoner having a copy of the Daily Telegraph would, with the aid of the key, enter the office at the end of the corridor and succeed in putting the newspaper on the desk of the officer. He would return to his cell and his door would remain unlocked all night. On the following morning the non-commissioned officer would start to unlock the doors, invariably retracing the steps he had taken the previous evening. The same prisoner, coming out from his cell in the morning, would hurry across the side of the triangle still closed and would be handed the key from the one who had performed the overnight operation; would turn the key in the lock, and return to his own cell. When the non-commissioned officer reached the last side of the triangle he would find all the doors locked.

This stratagem was repeated for about ten days and amused all the prisoners in the Stadtvogtei more than I can describe. The officer took every means imaginable to catch the culprit, but, happily, he never succeeded. Finally, when he decided to place a sentry at the door of his office throughout the night, the owner of the key was forced to abandon his practical joking.

Turkey was handsomely represented at the Stadtvogtei during a couple of years; the Turk prisoners were one Raschid and the other Tager.

Raschid was a young man, about thirty-five years of age. He was lodged in a cell on the floor above ours and there kept in solitary confinement. He was arrested while passing through Germany, because he, too, openly manifested his sympathies for France. Like Tager, his compatriot, he had received a French education, and had lived in Paris for several years. This poor Raschid, who was locked up all day long, was not allowed to read or smoke, but several among us when apprised of his hard lot succeeded from time to time in providing him with some French books, cigarets and also with a little food. Professor Henri Marteau, the celebrated French violinist, was particularly moved by the misfortunes of Raschid. He was allowed to play the instrument in his cell, which during the latter part of his captivity was situated on the side of the triangle facing the cell in which Raschid was confined. And there he would draw from his violin marvelous strains that would send a ray of comfort to the poor Turk’s soul.

One night I was called to Raschid’s cell. He was very ill. And while we talked together I obtained a great deal of information from him. The conversation, being in French, was not understood by the attendant non-commissioned officer.

Raschid believed at that time that he had been entirely forgotten by the military authorities. He was confined for over five months before hearing one single reason why he was so barbarously treated. Then upwards of five months after his arrest, he was taken to the office of Gen. Von Kessel, high commanding officer in the Steps of Brandenburg. Raschid, with whom I talked on the day following this interview, related the incidents of his conversation with the great general. Von Kessel informed him that he would soon be liberated; that he would travel by express train through the Balkans on his way to Constantinople. The general asked him the following questions amongst others:

“How long have you been in jail?”

“One hundred and sixty-two days,” answered Raschid.

“How long have you been in solitary confinement?”

“One hundred and sixty-two days.”

Here the general burst out laughing.

“One hundred and sixty-two days!” he exclaimed; “how is that?”

“I do not know,” replied Raschid.

“This is strange! This is strange! This is strange!” repeated the high Prussian commander.

Without asking further information, the general sent Raschid back to his cell. A few days later Raschid left us for better surroundings.

Tager was a man about fifty years of age, who came to Berlin provided with a passport from the German Minister in Switzerland. He was to return to Paris, where he resided, but one day was arrested and brought to the Stadtvogtei. He was never told during his captivity–which lasted four months–why he was interned. For my part, I never knew any other reason than that he had expressed pro-French sentiments.