CHAPTER XIV
Kultur in a Train
My new custodian was a fat, easy-going German, whom I found possessed some of the most radical of revolutionary ideas, but like a vast number of his comrades, too apathetic to trouble about carrying them out. We passed a little display of wealth in the form of a smartly dressed gentleman, lady, child and poodle dog, strolling down the street.
“They’re the bandits!” said my guard, nudging me. “They eat the butter and eggs. We have to fight on dry bread and potatoes!”
It was through him, too, that I first learned of Marshal Foch’s great offensive, though it was too young as yet to bring to us prisoners the Great Hope. We were seated in the corner of a Gastwirtschaft talking over glasses of wine (for which he paid). The gramophone was playing: “Puppchen, du bist mein Augenschatz,” or the German “Tipperary.” He leaned over as if about to divulge a great secret.
“Deutschland ist kaput!”[15]
“Was?” I asked, astonished at the admission, for the German newspapers had never been more optimistic than during the last month.
“Deutschland ist kaput—kaput,” he repeated, “absolutely tot![16] The soldiers will turn against the bandits soon, for they are starving! The food is finished—absolutely finished. We have nichts—nichts—nichts!”[17] and he put his thumbs together and jerked them quickly apart as though breaking a string.
“Ja,” I agreed, “but the offensive?” for the papers were still gloating over the March success.
“The offensive?” he went on, “Ach, the offensive is doing splendidly! They’ve captured fifty thousand prisoners! They’re going immer fester d’rauf!” and he beat himself on the chest in illustration. “Ach, Lieber, it’ll soon be over now!”
“I thought you’d captured one hundred and twenty thousand prisoners,” I protested, puzzled.
“Ach,” exclaimed the guard, “This isn’t us, it’s the French!”
We had three hours to wait for our train, so he took me for a stroll around Gadebusch. We visited two ladies who had sons in English and French imprisonment. Both of them talked kindly to me and said that their sons wrote pleasing accounts of their treatment at the hands of the enemy. Later he took me to see another English prisoner in a private home. It was a joy to meet him and speak the language again, exchanging the stories of our varied adventures. He was “all right” there, enjoying the privileges of a favored slave in the home, valued by his master and loved by the children, for whom his broken German was a source of never-ending amusement.
“Well, what are you going to do with him?” asked his master jocularly of my guard.
“Don’t you want another Engländer, Annie?” he asked, turning to the oldest girl.
“Ja, Ja!” shouted both the children at once.
Finding me agreeable, the old man and the guard immediately framed a letter to the Komandatur asking for my return to Gadebusch, when my punishment was over.
We took a third class passage back to the camp at Parchim. It was one of those long carriages with seats along the sides like a tram. A large crowd boarded the train at Gadebusch, but we got in among the first and managed to get seats. When the guard announced my nationality, I promptly became the cynosure of neighboring eyes and the object of innumerable questions, which he obligingly answered.
At the next station we received another influx of passengers, including a number of females, the scarcity of the seats and the preoccupation of the gentlemen occupying them forcing the latter to stand. This gave me the opportunity for a cheap triumph, lessened somewhat by the fact that there was no one beside myself to enjoy it.
I arose gallantly and grasped a strap.
“In England,” I said loud enough to be heard throughout the carriage, “the men are glad enough to stand when there are ladies without seats!”
I was the cynosure of piercing glares, but after an awkward pause, the men of the “superior” race began one by one to follow my example.
I grinned inwardly, but my outward mien preserved the due humility of a Kriegsgefangener, and my eyes rested on the distant fields.