The manner in which war prisoners and interned civilians were fed and treated in Germany gave rise, as we all know, to bitter complaints and more bitter controversies in the newspaper press of the allied countries. The repeated complaints of the prisoners themselves, in their letters to friends in Great Britain, and through the United States Embassy is a matter of record. Let me relate an incident which is not lacking in interest: Among the Englishmen who were interned at the Stadtvogtei was a Mr. F. T. Moore, civil engineer, who was in Luxemburg when war was declared. He was captured when that principality was overrun by the German troops, and subsequently sent to Treve. After several months’ solitary confinement he was court-martialed on a charge of espionage. He was condemned to the prison at Berlin, and here we met and became friends. At the outset Mr. Moore wrote a post-card to his wife in England telling her the condition of his health and incidentally referring to the kind of food that was supplied to us. His description was something of a masterpiece. “The food we are getting here,” he wrote, “is unspeakable. It is enough to keep a man from dying, but it is not sufficient to keep a man alive.”
It required, one may readily imagine, a certain courage to send such a statement through the mail. On the following day the censor himself called at the jail, and carried the card in question direct to Mr. Moore’s cell. It was represented that Mr. Moore had committed a grave imprudence in writing to England in this manner, and when Mr. Moore submitted that there was no exaggeration, that it was the truth and nothing but the truth, the censor retorted that if Germany did not provide more substantial and better food for her prisoners it was due solely to the British blockade.
The jail’s menu as I knew it during the three years I was interned varied very little. It consisted of one piece of black bread weighing eight ounces, distributed each morning at eight o’clock. At eleven a.m. we were served with what was ridiculously termed the “mittag essen,” that is to say, “the mid-day meal.” It consisted of what they were pleased to call porridge or soup. At five o’clock in the afternoon the acting-officer would return, this time accompanied by two Poles, who would distribute another variety of soup. There is soup “and” soup. The liquid which they served to us did not belong to the category of real soup. The ingredients were varied, generally they consisted of turnips, cabbage, and sometimes a few beans. It was never good, but sometimes it was worse than others. Generally it was bad in the morning and always worse at the afternoon serving. Apparently, the Poles suffered more than we did. On many an occasion one of these unfortunate men has come and begged a biscuit or a piece of bread from me.
“The soup we get,” he would say, “is nothing but colored water.”
I myself never ventured to taste the afternoon soup. The color and odor were alike too repulsive. I believe it was rejected by all the Englishmen interned here.
In 1915 the economic conditions of Germany continued relatively favorable. There was, apparently, nothing alarming in the situation. Prisoners were permitted to give orders once each day for provisions of all kinds, and the orders would be filled to the extent the prisoner had money to pay for the same. But early in 1916 a significant change took place. The citizens were then placed upon strict rations, and in March notices were posted in the corridors of the jail to the effect that efforts to obtain victuals from outside were forbidden. The menu I have described thenceforward became inevitable for each and every one of us.
I at once communicated with the authorities in England–more particularly with Sir George Perley, Canadian High Commissioner in London, telling them of the situation to which we were reduced as regarded food. But we were restricted to such abbreviated formula that it was impossible to represent the situation as it actually existed–the situation, that is to say, of relative famine. Exceeding care had to be taken, or our letters would never have passed the censor. We each adopted what seemed to be the best measures in the circumstances to obtain relief from the painfully meagre prison fare. The postal service was, not unnaturally, very uncertain and irregular between the two countries. We entertained the hope, however, that at the end of three weeks, at the latest, foodstuffs would reach us from England. But it was three months ere the welcome parcels containing the much needed provisions were delivered at the jail. During that period of waiting we were able to realize something of the hunger the poor Poles suffered at all times, for with very few exceptions they were deprived of outside relief. It would require many volumes to faithfully relate the tortures of hunger these interned Poles went through. Many times I saw one of their number delve into a garbage can and extract therefrom potato peelings that had been cast there. The Poles would put salt upon the peelings and devour them with avidity.
Then, at about this time, a notice was posted on the wall in the little triangular yard notifying all whom it might concern that henceforth potato peelings must be deposited in a receptacle placed at the end of the corridor. The peelings, we were informed, now had a special value, and they were to be guarded as feed for the cattle, more particularly the cows. On the day this notice appeared, five or six of us–all British prisoners–were engaged in the kitchen cell preparing a stew. Suddenly the sergeant-major appeared in our midst. He was a quick-moving, nervous man; he invariably talked in a loud voice and gesticulated vehemently.
“Have you read the notice that has just been posted up?” he demanded. “From now on you will not be allowed to throw away the potato peelings, as you have been in the habit of doing. Fodder for the cattle has become very scarce and you must guard the potato peelings, all of you, and deposit them in the receptacle you will find placed for that purpose at the end of the corridor.”
The sergeant-major waited for a reply to, or a comment upon, the new order, but we kept our interest concentrated on the dishes in front of us and remained mute. He glared at the group and said: “Understand me, gentlemen; understand me well, for I hope you will not force me to inflict punishment upon you through disobedience of the new rule.”
Another period of silence followed and then one of the company stepped forward. He certainly had a keen sense of humor, and was not devoid of courage. “Mr. Sergeant-Major,” he said, “I beg your pardon, but I eat the peelings from all the potatoes I receive.”
We choked back the laughter the incident provoked, and the sergeant-major, at a loss to interpret the man’s observation, looked first at one and then another. But we maintained our gravity, and, apparently undecided whether to laugh himself at the joke or to give vent to wrath the sergeant-major turned on his heel and walked from the cell. I wonder–did he understand?
From June, 1916, to the date of my liberation, I received, in quantities just sufficient, provisions which were regularly forwarded to me from England, and sometimes from Canada. I have frequently been asked if the parcels which were directed to me from time to time arrived at their destination? To this I am able to reply, “Yes, in a general way.” It has been proved that the postal employés of Germany committed fewer thefts than were committed on the railways. I would sometimes receive a parcel which had been opened, and from which some of the contents had been extracted. Some parcels that I know were sent never reached me. It was easy for us to check the delivery of parcels as each contained a number.
Individual prisoners sometimes received parcels that had been sent express by railway. As a rule they were larger than could be sent through the postal service, and only very rarely did these parcels reach their destination whole. Almost every time they had been broken open and four, five or six pounds of the contents were missing. Invariably it was a case of theft. It may not be inopportune to state here that in 1917 some of the German newspapers reported that claims against the German express companies for loss aggregated thirty-five million marks, whilst in the preceding year these claims amounted to only four or five million marks. This is evidence that there was an enormous increase in the number and extent of the robberies in 1917.
In 1916, we obtained permission from the inspector of prisons to place a gas stove in one of the cells, and here between eleven o’clock and noon one might see the prisoners of British nationality gather for the purpose of cooking their mid-day meal. The management of this kitchen was confided to one man of our choice and each prisoner making use of the stove contributed a small sum of money towards the cost of the gas. There was an overseer named to guard against the waste of gas. He kept a quantity of hot water constantly on hand for the use of the prisoners. The water was sold at the rate of one pfennig per quart. The Polish prisoners, in the winter months especially, would frequently come to buy hot water. The poor fellows had to resort to drinking hot water to stimulate circulation in their empty stomachs. Every British prisoner was besieged in his cell every day by beggars. The Poles in turn besought bread to eat. I was a witness every day of the never-failing generosity of British captives and there must be to-day thousands of Poles who, after passing through this jail, retain an imperishable memory of the charity and compassion of men who, fortunate in receiving victuals from outside, cheerfully shared them with fellow prisoners less fortunate. These Poles, especially, now that they are free to return to their own devastated country, must have nothing but words of praise for those who did all they possibly could in very dire circumstances to alleviate their sufferings and hardships.
Naturally, it was impossible to attend to more than the most urgent needs of anyone. There were, on an average, from ten to fifteen British subjects confined at one time in this cell, while at no time were there ever fewer than one hundred and fifty Poles. The British authorities at Ruhleben camp deserve a special word of praise for the never-failing interest they showed towards not only the prisoners of British nationality in Stadtvogtei jail but also towards the Poles, and the deported Belgians particularly. During the time I was at the head of the relief committee of the jail I received on many an occasion very large cases of biscuits and other provisions for distribution amongst the most needy of all subjects under confinement. I had as an assistant in this work, Mr. Hinterman, a Swiss, to whom I shall have occasion to refer subsequently.
During the three years of my captivity in the jail at Berlin I frequently had occasion to exercise my profession as a medical doctor. Medical care was supposed to be given to the prisoners by an old practitioner of Berlin, a Dr. Becker. He visited the jail every day between the hours of nine and ten o’clock in the morning. Sick prisoners, accompanied by a non-commissioned officer, went to him in his office, which was situate in a section of the building adjoining the jail proper. Exactly at ten o’clock the aged doctor would leave his office, not to return until the following morning. For twenty-four hours every day I was the only physician in the section of the jail I occupied. The adjoining sections, which were likewise of triangular shape, were occupied by German soldiers who had been accused of breach of discipline. On several occasions I was called upon to give medical attention to some of these soldiers while they were awaiting trial before a court-martial. During the daytime I was free to visit these patients, going from cell to cell. At night, however, I was locked in my own cell like the other prisoners, and if something happened in the neighboring section a non-commissioned officer would arouse and conduct me to the place where my professional services were required. This happened very often. I was in this way not infrequently called to attend to a prisoner who had attempted suicide. In no fewer than ten instances it was a case of actual suicide, committed in some cases with a revolver; in other cases with a razor and sometimes by strangulation. No experience was more appalling than to hear in the dead of night the report of a gun. The walls would vibrate, the prisoners would be aroused from sleep, and one would ask the other who now had preferred a sudden end to a continuance of misery. A few minutes after the report my cell door would be opened by a non-commissioned officer. He would request me to follow him in order to ascertain the cause of death or render medical aid to an injured prisoner, as the case might be.
Services which I rendered to prisoners of all nationalities, and oftentimes to non-commissioned officers, placed me in a favorable position with the guards. There was no attempt to restrict the freedom of my movements inside the prison, and in this way I was able to aid less fortunate prisoners, either with medical attention or by providing food where the need was most urgent. I received cordial co-operation from my fellow captives, more especially from the English-speaking. One had only to make an appeal on behalf of a prisoner to at once receive from others tea, biscuits, margarine or any little delicacy that was available. No sacrifice was too great if these men could only relieve, if only in a small measure, the distress of their fellows.
One of the most pathetic cases which came within my personal observation was that of Dan Williamson. Twice he had escaped from Ruhleben camp. After his first recapture he was interned at the Stadtvogtei, where he remained for about a year. Then he was sent back to Ruhleben camp. A few months later he escaped again. In company with a companion named Collins he succeeded in passing the German sentries and was on his way towards Holland when he and his companion were arrested. They were brought to the jail in Berlin. At that time recaptured prisoners were being punished by solitary confinement in dark dungeons for two weeks at a time. Williamson and Collins were placed in separate dark cells–two of the fourteen with the dark shutters which I have previously referred to. One day, at about five o’clock in the afternoon, a terrible noise was heard. This was succeeded by what appeared to be the pounding of the walls. Threats were overheard. A non-commissioned officer appeared at the door of my cell and informed me that Williamson had just attempted to commit suicide; that he had been found covered with blood, and that a blood-stained razor with which he had attempted the deed had been taken from him. Meanwhile the noise of the blows against the wall of the neighboring cell continued. My informant said: “Williamson is making all this noise.” I reflected that a man of so much apparent vigor was not in immediate danger.
At the request of the non-commissioned officer I proceeded to the door of Williamson’s cell. I was attempting to speak to him through the small aperture in the middle of the door when my words were interrupted by a heavy blow on the door from the inside. Instinctively I withdrew and decided that it would not be wise to open the door at the moment. Williamson evidently had a weapon of some kind in his possession, and it was supposed he had succeeded in tearing off one of the legs from the iron bedstead in the cell. I advised the non-commissioned officer to telephone to the police station for two constables, and a few minutes afterwards these men appeared accompanied by two other non-commissioned officers of the jail. I suggested that we should first open the door of Collins’ cell, which was immediately adjoining the one occupied by Williamson. This done, I advised Collins to stand on the threshold of Williamson’s cell and try to appease his friend. Then the door was opened. Williamson leaped from his cell like an enraged tiger let loose from a cage. He struck his friend Collins, knocking him to the ground, and he would have beaten the fellow unmercifully had not the whole party of us seized Williamson and overpowered him. He was like a man who had lost his reason. I was about to speak to him when he cried out: “Give me my razor so that I may end it all.” His clothes were covered with blood. On his right arm was a deep wound, though not a long one. It had manifestly been inflicted with some sharp instrument.
While the others held him I obtained the necessary dressing and at once gave the wound the surgical treatment it required and dressed it. Then the constables handcuffed him, carried him into a distant padded-cell, locked the door and left him for the rest of the night. Before I left him, however, I asked if there was anything I might possibly do for him. Williamson, poor fellow, looked at me with a blank stare and said nothing. I urged my request, but it was in vain. He would not say one word.
My mind was preoccupied with the man until the next morning, when I asked one of the non-commissioned officers to accompany me to the cell where Williamson had been placed. Arriving there we found the prisoner standing in the middle of the cell. He fixed his haggard eyes upon us, but he remained mute to my “Good morning.”
“Well, how are you feeling now?” I asked him.
No answer.
“Did you sleep?”
Again there was no answer.
“Come, come, my dear, good fellow,” I said, “cheer up; I have brought you some warm tea and some biscuits. Do you wish for anything else? If so I may be allowed to bring it to you.”
Williamson still stood silent, with his cold stare fixed upon me, unmindful of all I said to him. I placed the cup of tea and the biscuits on the mattress, which was the only commodity in the cell, and once more I tried to make him understand me, but it was of no avail. His lips were as though sealed. And so we left him–the officer and I. A report was at once made to the prison doctor, Dr. Becker, who, when he arrived at nine o’clock that morning ordered Williamson into hospital. Three weeks afterwards he came back to the jail, looking much better. But the same night I was again called to his cell by a non-commissioned officer. Williamson lay stretched on the floor near his bed suffering from an acute fit of epilepsy. After we had him calmed down we placed him on the bed and I talked with him for an hour. He was calm and self-contained. He gave me news of some British prisoners of war–some of whom were wounded–whom he had met at the Alexandrine Street Hospital where he had been a patient himself during the three preceding weeks. It was then that I resolved to apply to the German authorities for permission to serve at this hospital as surgeon to the British prisoners. I communicated my intention to Williamson.
“You may make your application, doctor,” he said, “but it will be refused.”
“Why do you say that?” I inquired.
“Because these people will know that, in the position you seek, you will see too many things and get to know too much.”
Williamson’s prediction was right. My request, made a few days later, was refused. In the meantime Williamson had another fit of epilepsy. He was at that time in the cell of a Mr. Hall, another Englishman. It was between five and six o’clock in the afternoon. Non-commissioned officers hastened to the cell, and, frightened by the serious turn Williamson’s illness had taken, they made a joint report to the officer in charge, who at once interviewed Dr. Becker on the subject. The outcome was that Williamson was released from the jail. I never was able to ascertain where he was taken. I believe he was sent to an asylum for the insane, and from there he would be exchanged.
One night we were awakened by a series of detonations coming from outside the jail. What could it be, we wondered. There we were right in the heart of Berlin, and there was unmistakably a serious disturbance of some kind. Was it a riot? Was it the noise of an encounter between the gendarmes and a band of workmen on strike? We could obtain no answer to these questions at the time, but soon afterwards I was informed of what had taken place. Shortly after hearing the noise of the first shots I was called from my cell to ascertain the cause of the death of a soldier who had been brought from the battle-front to Berlin to be locked up at Stadtvogtei pending trial before a court-martial. This refractory soldier, the guards reported, had behaved himself well all the way from Flanders to Berlin, but directly he reached the front of the jail he became unruly, broke from his guards, and escaped. The guards went in pursuit. There was an exciting chase around the walls of the jail, which are seventy-five feet high. The fugitive soldier was gaining on his pursuers when one of the latter fired on him. Thus it was a dead soldier, and not a live prisoner, that the guards brought into the jail. He had been struck by five bullets, and the only duty I was called to perform was to declare the man dead. I did this in the presence of the doorkeeper, the night watchman, and the two guards. Early the next morning, aroused by some commotion, we all stood on our chairs and stretched our necks in order to get a glimpse from the windows of what was going on below. The men had come to remove to the morgue the body of the soldier who had been killed by one of his former companions-in-arms.
Among the interesting prisoners I knew in the Stadtvogtei during my long captivity there are several who deserve special mention. Early in 1916 there were frequently heard proceeding from a section of the jail near the division where I was confined the tones of soft music. For a time we did not know whether the music came from the outside or the inside of the building. Conjectures were in order. Some of my companions believed the music was played by a talented violinist who was held prisoner as we were. Others ventured the opinion that the sweet strains emanated from a house in the immediate neighborhood of the prison. One day the Sergeant-Major informed me during his tour of inspection that I was to be permitted to visit a French prisoner confined in an adjoining division of the jail. He said the prisoner was known as Professor Henri Marteau. The name, I at once recalled, was that of a celebrated French musician whom I heard during his visit to Canada some twenty years ago.
“Whenever you feel inclined to call on the Professor,” the Sergeant-Major said, “I will accompany you to his cell; but I have to inform you that while you are making your call the door of the cell will be locked upon you, as the Professor is condemned to solitary confinement. It is to be permitted him to return your call, and if he chooses to do so, your door will likewise be locked while you are together.”
Not unnaturally, I was very anxious to meet this distinguished Frenchman and on the following day I asked the Sergeant-Major if he would be kind enough to conduct me to his cell. I found the Professor one of the most charming and interesting men one could wish to meet. He was then about forty-five years of age, and manifestly an artist to his finger-tips. This is the story he told to me:
At the outbreak of the war he was practising as a professor of the violin at the Berlin Conservatory of Music, and as a French subject, he was ordered interned at Holzminden, in the internment camp designated for civilians of French nationality. A few months later, by the express order of the Emperor, he was granted his liberty in Berlin. Mr. Marteau had married an Alsatian lady, whose sympathies, like those of so many of the people of her Province, were known to be entirely with France. The professor and his wife were admitted to the best society of Berlin, and shortly after Bulgaria had entered the war, Madame Marteau, at a society gathering, expressed the sense of her displeasure at Bulgaria’s stand. Her words were reported to the military authorities, and a few days afterwards two detectives called at the professor’s residence with an order that he and his wife were to be interned. Madame Marteau was taken to an internment camp reserved for women, and the professor was removed to the Stadtvogtei.
“But, my dear sir, why were you interned–you, a professor of the Berlin Conservatory of Music?” I asked him.
“Merely because of my wife’s remarks,” he answered with a delicate smile in which it was impossible to detect the slightest shadow of reproach.
The day following our interview the professor returned my call. He was, of course, accompanied to my cell by a non-commissioned officer, who, according to instructions, locked us in the room together. Mr. Marteau brought with him his marvelous instrument upon which he had been granted the privilege to play during his imprisonment. It was his music which had charmed our ears on previous days.
On this occasion he was kind enough to entertain me with several selections from Bach and Gounod. The Poles, as is well known, have a passion for music, as, indeed, have the Russians, and they flocked to the windows and were charmed by the enchanting music. Every selection was heartily applauded. The entertainment caused a pleasant sensation in the prison, and when the professor visited me again the next day, there was the same enthusiastic audience to enjoy his masterly performance.
Suddenly it was interrupted by the appearance of the Sergeant-Major at the door of my cell. Ignoring the professor’s courteous bow, he cried in a harsh voice: “This cannot be allowed; you have no permission to play here.” The officer left as abruptly as he came, and the door was closed with a bang.
I must be excused if I do not report the remarks that were made at the ill-mannered behavior towards Professor Marteau, who was as refined as he was distinguished.
This worthy man was the father of two charming daughters, aged four and five years respectively, but in spite of his requests–repeated over and over again during his three months’ confinement in the Stadtvogtei–for the privilege of receiving visits from his children and for permission that they might call to see their mother, the Kommandantur categorically refused to grant the petition.
A few months afterwards Professor Marteau was granted provisional liberty. He was permitted to leave the jail and go and reside in the village of Mecklembourg, where he had to report himself daily at the municipal hall; but his movements were confined to the radius of the village boundaries.
During our intercourse, I frequently expressed the hope that, after the termination of the war, we might have the pleasure of welcoming him on a return visit to Canada and the United States. I told him that he might be assured of the greatest triumph an artist of his outstanding talent could hope for.
Two other prisoners, both equally interesting, I had for companions–one for three months, and the other for five months. They were Messrs. Kluss and Borchard, socialistic members of the Reichstag. I did not get so well acquainted with Mr. Borchard as with Mr. Kluss; in the first place, because we were not together for so long, and secondly, because he was in solitary confinement for part of the time. However, I retain very pleasant memories of Mr. Borchard, and I have been able to keep the copy he gave to me of a famous letter he addressed to the German Emperor. It was a masterpiece. In it he resumed all that a man of his talent and political faith could urge against the autocratic system of Germany. I do not know, of course, whether or not it was that letter which resulted in his liberation from prison.
With regard to Mr. Kluss, he remained in jail for what seemed a very long time. He was invariably friendly with every prisoner. He visited one cell after another and talked with every occupant. And his conversation was most interesting. He was a man of wide learning–a scholar, in fact. Often we discussed together the different political institutions of Germany. One incident in which he played an important part during his captivity is worthy of mention. Once a year the general commanding officer of Berlin made a visit of inspection at the jail. General Von Boehm, about seventy years of age, and deaf as a post, was the commanding officer at this time. Well, one fine morning this high officer, surrounded by his myrmidons–one colonel, two majors, two captains, and a number of lieutenants–arrived at the jail. The clanking of their swords and spurs preceded them as they climbed the stairs and walked along the corridors. At each cell door the General would halt and ask each prisoner:
“Have you any complaint to make?”
When the question was addressed to me, I replied: “I submit I have just reason to complain, as a physician, of being interned, and as such I shall not cease from claiming my liberation.”
“Very well,” replied the General, and he continued his tour of inspection, repeating the one question at each cell. The majority of the prisoners made no reply, but when several of them answered: “Yes, I have a complaint to make,” the General said, “Very well then; go down into the yard.”
By the time he had concluded the inspection some twelve prisoners had answered the stereotyped question in the affirmative, and they were assembled in the yard.
Amongst them was the Socialist Deputy Kluss. The General and his camarilla appeared in due course and the prisoners were invited to give voice to their complaints. Seemingly frightened, they all remained silent with the exception of Mr. Kluss. He stepped into the centre of the yard and there commenced to make a formidable arraignment of the German military authorities and the arbitrary regulations of which he said he was one of the victims. Kluss knew very well that General Von Boehm was deaf, and this gave him just reason to raise his voice. Thus we were all able to hear a veritable platform oration pronounced in a voice vibrant and penetrating. One may imagine how amused we prisoners were by this incident. The General went through the motions of listening to the whole discourse; he pretended to hear it, and would occasionally nod his head as though he quite approved of what was being said.
At one stage of his speech, Mr. Kluss likened the methods of the German military authorities as they were directed against him to the worst barbarities of the Middle Ages. One of the officers accompanying the General endeavored to silence the speaker but it was of no avail. Nothing could stem the flow of the man’s eloquence!
When the address was ended, General von Boehm, who evidently had not heard a single word, merely remarked, “Yes, very well,” and was about to move away when Mr. Kluss obstructed his path and cried out: “What is the answer, General–give me an answer, please.”
The General, realizing that he was being addressed again, moved to one side and repeated, “Yes, quite so; very well; very well,” and this time passed on. We did not see him again.
Kluss received the congratulations of the German subjects who were with us and who believed they were the victims of a vicious system and a gross injustice on the part of their Government.
Incidentally, I may say that Kluss was a fervent admirer of Liebknecht.
The names of two prisoners, Maclinks and Kirkpatrick, recall to my mind one of the most tragic events of my prison life. Maclinks was already in the Berlin jail when I arrived in June, 1915. The door of his cell bore an indication that he was a British subject. He spoke English fluently, and if one may believe what he said of himself he was for several years the correspondent of the London Times at Vienna, where he lived. According to all initial appearances, Maclinks was a loyal British subject. He associated with the British prisoners, who in turn would visit him in his cell. He had great talent and intelligence.
Some months later there arrived at the prison a young Englishman named Russell. He had been arrested at his place of residence in Brussels. A friendship immediately sprung up between Russell and Maclinks and they spent much of their time together. One fine day, or rather one bad day, Russell was peremptorily ordered to leave the prison for a destination which was not known to him. He was not allowed to take with him any of his books or papers.
“Put on your overcoat and hat, and follow me,” was the abrupt order given him by the officer at the door of his cell. A minute later and Russell had departed.
The incident aroused an intense feeling among us. What had happened? Why had Russell been ordered away without a minute’s notice? What added to our apprehension was the fact that at the bottom of the stairs on the ground floor we saw two armed sentries, and they accompanied Russell from the prison.
On this same day one of the Kommandantur’s officers, Captain Wolfe, had visited the jail, and it was known that while here he had an interview with Maclinks. We were getting very suspicious of Maclinks. Why? Well, for an infinity of reasons, which I have not space here to enumerate. The British prisoners would have no more relations with him. Only one man continued to speak to him from time to time. He was a Mr. Kirkpatrick.
Confident, perhaps, that Kirkpatrick would continue to be his friend in any event, Maclinks several days afterwards made a confession. He showed Kirkpatrick the copy of a letter purporting to be the one he had sent to the military authorities, and in this letter Kirkpatrick read that Russell had been denounced by Maclinks as having been a spy in the employ of the British Government in Belgium. Kirkpatrick was more than amazed, but before he could make any observation, Maclinks explained that he was an officer in the reserve of the Austrian army, and that his conscience had prompted him to do what he considered to be his duty and denounce Russell. Kirkpatrick could no longer contain himself. He stood up and threatened that if Maclinks did not leave his cell immediately he would throw him out.
The news quickly circulated through the prison, creating an atmosphere which is difficult to describe. The evening was very dismal. We all felt uneasy and depressed as though our every action was being spied upon. Who knew what might happen to anyone of us? It might be the fate of oblivion or it might be condemnation to execution. Life had become intolerable in the presence of this emissary of the enemy–Maclinks. On his side, existence was made so miserable for him that he finally requested to be removed, and a few weeks later he left the jail, never to return.
One noteworthy feature of this spying business in Germany is that the authorities can never trust, but are constantly suspicious of the spies they employ. Maclinks, it is true, was allowed to leave the Stadtvogtei, but he was not allowed his full liberty. Authentic information we were able to obtain subsequently was to the effect that he was moved from one prison to another.
Kirkpatrick, who was the oldest prisoner amongst us, was much liked and highly respected–he was in fact, as we often told him, our “guide, philosopher and friend.” And his Scottish humor was of the best quality.
For example, he would see two or three of us sitting together at table partaking of canned beef and bread, and very seriously he would say: “Really, boys, I cannot understand how you can be so unfeeling as to enjoy such luxuries when the poor German people are on the verge of starvation. Don’t you know, gentlemen, that you are here to purge a sentence a thousand times merited?”
It was the same Kirkpatrick who, on December 31st, when we asked him how he hoped to cross the threshold of the New Year, answered, “You will hear of me before to-morrow morning.” We all wondered what he meant. None of us had the slightest idea, but the answer came punctually, as he had predicted. At midnight, while the bells of the churches in the neighborhood marked the passing of the old year, a window was heard to open in the darkness near us, and, as the last note of the bells died away, the first silence of the new year was broken by a stentorian voice singing “Rule Britannia!”
The patriotic hymn had scarcely ended when another window opened. It was that of the non-commissioned officer in charge of the prisoners, and he thundered forth an order for silence. I afterwards made inquiries amongst my prison companions to ascertain who it was that entertained and cheered us on the first of the New Year with the singing of this grand song, but I could not then obtain the information I sought. Then, at about nine o’clock, Kirkpatrick came into my cell, looking cheerful as usual. We wished each other a Happy New Year and I asked him, “Were you the brave man who broke the stillness of the morning with the echoes of ‘Rule Britannia’?”
He shook his head, but his significant smile was eloquent of the truth.
We had changed the subject when a non-commissioned officer appeared and demanded to know the name of the nocturnal singer. We were each of us asked in turn, with the exception of Kirkpatrick. He had never been heard before even to attempt to sing a note, so the question was not put direct to him. Hence everybody who was asked, truthfully denied being the singer the jail authorities were seeking. The joke was a good one in the circumstances, and we enjoyed it immensely.
One of the interned cases which is likely to be heard of is that of Mr. Hintermann, a subject of Switzerland. In referring to the case in the course of a narrative of this kind it is obviously necessary to maintain a certain amount of reserve and not to make public details which might inopportunely throw too much light on the actions of certain officials who were then in the employ of the Department of Foreign Affairs for Switzerland. Mr. Hintermann was a Swiss by birth, and although he had been much abroad he maintained his nationality; that is to say, he never became a naturalized subject of any other country. He resided in London with his family and was connected with a very important firm in England’s metropolis. He went to Switzerland during the summer of 1915, and while in that country projected a trip to Berlin. Before he could go there he had to obtain a passport signed by the German Minister at Berne. This was done without the least difficulty, though his departure was delayed for a few days by someone in the German Minister’s office.
M. M. MOORE, ETLINGER, DR. BELAND, HINTERMAN
Dr. Beland (cross) and fellow-prisoners during internment
Mr. Hintermann finally left Switzerland, but he was arrested by two soldiers at the first station he reached after crossing the frontier on his way to Berlin. On being taken into the stationmaster’s office Mr. Hintermann saw on the agent’s desk a despatch from Switzerland containing a direct reference to himself. He was then taken under escort to Berlin and lodged in the jail where I was a prisoner. On the door of his cell was written these words: “H. Hintermann, Englander.” It did not take long for Mr. Hintermann to delete the word “Englander” and substitute for it the word “Swiss.” Someone immediately changed the word back again. This went on for some time. A few hours after Mr. Hintermann would write “Swiss” on the card, the word would be mysteriously erased, and “Englander” written again in its place.
I knew Mr. Hintermann intimately. I knew that he had never been naturalized while in England, but I think the Swiss Government and the German Government were too easily persuaded that he had become a naturalized British subject. I am not at liberty to say at this moment by what process the two Governments were placed under this false impression, but I can affirm that during the three years I knew Mr. Hintermann he never once ceased to urge his right to liberty as the subject of a neutral country. Over and over again the two Governments were called upon by him to prove that he was a British subject, but the only reply he received was a categorical statement from the Swiss Legation in Berlin that the Department of Foreign Affairs at Berlin was well informed on this subject and had documentary proof that Mr. Hintermann had been naturalized in England. Mr. Hintermann, on his side, insisted with vehemence that these documents, if they existed, were forgeries.
I am not allowed to tell more, but it is certain that the unwarranted internment of one of the best and most honorable men I ever met ended only with the armistice. It caused him incalculable damages in his affairs and great injury to his health. I am convinced that the victim of this denial to justice will seek redress somehow, and that the trials and tribulations he had to undergo will reverberate now that the war is practically ended.
Mr. Hintermann was a man of very high character. He was greatly esteemed by all the prisoners. Towards the more needy he showed great charity and alleviated numberless cases of suffering. Speaking German, French, and English with equal fluency, he was able to communicate with the prisoners of these nationalities, and in this way he came to realize their distress and sufferings and was thus the better able to apply what remedies were within his reach. All who knew him during his imprisonment will ever have a pleasant remembrance of the man, and a deep appreciation of his invariable generosity and kindness of heart.
The subject of the deportation of Belgians was the main topic of discussion in the newspapers for some time and I cannot add anything new on the subject. It was with manifest reluctance that the German press finally admitted that Belgians had been deported, and were then in Germany. The accomplishment, however, was so palpable that denial was at last rendered impossible.
We received at one time and another a great number of these unfortunate people into our jail. They were, for the most part, Belgian subjects who had refused to work for the Germans. There were some who, after accepting the burden of hard labor forced upon them in the hope that in this way they might find some relief from the terrible situation that otherwise threatened them at Guben camp, at last rebelled against their task and the insufficiency of food. It was then that they were brought to the Stadtvogtei. On one occasion there were no fewer than twenty-four of these prisoners amongst us, and towards them the British prisoners always showed a practical sympathy.
I cannot leave this subject without mentioning one notable case. It was that of a Belgian named Edouard Werner. He was a man twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, and of remarkable physique–tall, well proportioned, and very strong. He lived in Antwerp before war was declared, and was engaged in that city in the offices of the Canadian Pacific Railway Company. His parents were Germans, but himself born in Antwerp, he decided, when he attained the age of eighteen years, to become a naturalized Belgian subject. He submitted to the requirements of the military laws of the country, but was exempted from service in the army and had in his possession papers to this effect.
Antwerp, it will be recalled, was occupied by the enemy on October 10, 1914, and a few months afterwards Werner received notice to report to the German authorities in the military district of Westphalia. He refused to obey this order in spite of the insistence of his aged mother, who, a German herself, wished to see her son join the ranks of the German army. Two months afterwards a second notice was served on the young man reiterating the command to report for duty. Werner persisted in his refusal to obey, again in spite of his mother’s entreaties. Then a final notification was received that unless he complied vigorous measures would be taken against him. More in obedience to the wishes of his mother than in fear of the execution of the German threats Werner duly reported himself as commanded. He took with him his papers of identification and other documents showing that he was a Belgian subject, and that he had complied with the requirements of the military laws of Belgium. He was subjected to a severe examination in Westphalia.
“Why did you not report sooner?” he was asked.
“Because I am a Belgian subject,” he answered.
“It is false; it is false. You are a German–your parents both are Germans,” he was told.
“I do not deny that my father and mother are Germans,” Werner said, “but for myself I have chosen to become naturalized as a Belgian and I have in my possession documentary proof of this assertion.”
The examining officer asked to be allowed to see the documents. When they were produced the officer rejected the proof and refused to consider the young man a Belgian subject. Werner was told that from that moment he must consider himself enrolled in the German army and hold himself in readiness to leave immediately for Berlin. Accordingly he was sent to the German capital, where he was lodged in the barracks of the famous Alexander Regiment, in which no soldier is accepted unless he is at least six feet tall. Werner’s height was six feet two inches. He was put in uniform and started to undergo training. As he spoke French, German and Flemish fluently, he was a little later given employment in the office of the sergeant-major, who assigned him to the work of correspondence and translating. He became more or less popular among the officers and non-commissioned officers who believed that he had become quite converted to German ideas. One day Werner applied for leave of absence in order that he might visit his mother at Antwerp; the major replied that it would be quite impossible to grant him leave of absence to go into Belgium, but if he had relatives in Germany he would readily be granted leave to visit them. Werner said he had an aunt residing at Hamburg, and he was granted three days’ leave to go and visit her.
It was a fête-day and Werner was to leave Berlin in the evening. In the afternoon, attired in gala uniform and wearing the plume-helmet, he accompanied one of his comrades on a tour through the city. He exhibited his holiday permit to his companion, at the same time expressing regret that it was not valid for Antwerp. His comrade took the permit from his hands, walked away with it from the table at which they were drinking beer, and returned a few minutes later with the permit now reading that it was to allow the bearer to go to Antwerp instead of to Hamburg.
Delighted by his good fortune, Werner resolved to leave by the first train for Antwerp. At Cologne, and more particularly at Aix-la-Chapelle, the soldiers had to have their travelling permits checked. Now, it was against the military rules of the day to travel in gala uniform, such as young Werner was wearing, except under special circumstances. At Cologne and again at Aix-la-Chapelle astonishment was expressed by the officials when they saw Werner in full dress. He was asked for an explanation.
“Well,” he replied, “I am going to visit my mother and I wish to give her a pleasurable surprise, as she has never seen me in military uniform.” He was allowed to continue his journey, and at Antwerp his mother told him with pride that he looked more handsome than she had ever seen him look before.
Werner then conceived the project–perhaps he had carried the idea in his mind from the outset–to change his uniform for a suit of mufti and escape into Holland. In order to do this he had to obtain the co-operation of one of his cousins. The plan was completed; civilian clothing was obtained; he made a parcel of his grenadier’s uniform and directed it to the barracks of the Alexander Regiment in Berlin. Then in the evening he and his cousin walked in the direction of Capellen, from which point they hoped to be able to cross the frontier during the night.
Here, however, they fell into a trap. A man, who afterwards turned out to be a spy in the service of the Germans, directed them to a certain coffee-house, where he said they would find a reliable man who would guide them safely across the border. At the coffee-house the two cousins were advised to spend the night at the mayor’s residence and hold themselves in readiness to cross the frontier early the next morning. This was the trap which caught them. The mayor’s house was occupied by German officers–a fact of which Werner and his companion were equally ignorant. Escape now was hopeless. They were held as prisoners until next day, when they were searched and questioned. When it was ascertained that they wished to cross into Holland they were taken back to Antwerp and arraigned before the Kommandantur. Werner’s cousin passed through the ordeal easily enough and he was liberated. Werner hoped that his fate would be equally happy. His hopes, however, were speedily dashed to the ground. When he gave his name the officer pondered a minute, then he spoke to someone over the telephone and, turning to Werner, asked abruptly:
“Are you not Edouard Werner?”
“Yes.”
“Are you not a deserter?”
“No.”
“But did you not belong to a regiment in Berlin?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you explain your presence here, and in civilian clothes?”
Without waiting for a reply, the officer, fuming with rage, and in a voice which made the attendants tremble, ordered Werner to prison. Thence he was arraigned before the German Police Commissioner, who, threatening the most dire punishment, said to the prisoner in an aside: “You will now know what it is to be dealt with by the Prussian military authority. I would not give much for your skin, young man.”
Werner was taken back to prison and a few days later transferred to Berlin. Here he was thrown into a dungeon, and the next morning appeared before the regiment major–the officer who had in the first instance given him a permit to go to Hamburg. This man nearly choked with rage when he saw the prisoner.
“Take him from my sight; take him from my sight,” he repeated.
Werner was taken away, was put back into uniform, and only then would the major consent to see him again. On this occasion he once more gave way to a fit of passion. He banged the table with his fist and menaced Werner with all kinds of torture, going so far as to threaten to have him executed. Once he paused in his wrath to ask what had become of the uniform Werner wore when he went away.
“I sent it back to barracks here,” replied Werner.
“It’s a lie–a lie,” roared the major.
“Well,” insisted the prisoner, “it is easy to prove if my statement is a lie. Will you be kind enough to inquire if a parcel in which I wrapped the uniform at Antwerp and directed here has been received?”
Inquiry promptly revealed the fact that the package in question was received at barracks a few weeks previously. The prisoner was kept in jail pending trial by court martial. He refused the offer which was made of counsel to defend him, and when duly brought before his military judges he was asked what he had to say before sentence was passed upon him. He replied, in effect, as follows:
“I am a Belgian, and it was impossible for me conscientiously to take up arms against my country. When the first opportunity presented itself I returned to my country. I did not desert the German army, but merely went back to my country from which I had been taken by force and contrary to international law. In my opinion, to carry arms and fight for Germany against my own countrymen would be an act of treason. I have done nothing but act in accordance with the promptings of my conscience. That is my plea. Do with me as you wish.”
In a consultation between the officers one of them was overheard to say, “We ought not to give him more than fifteen years’ imprisonment.” Werner was taken back to his dungeon where he awaited sentence, but no sentence was announced to him–whatever judgment was passed he was never told what it was. But after a few weeks waiting he was taken from the dungeon and lodged in the Stadtvogtei without an explanation being given to him in any way. It was here that we became acquainted. It was here that he related to me his story, which appears to me to be sufficiently interesting to be related.
Werner remained in this jail for five or six months. At the end of that time he was urged to enter the German army. He peremptorily refused, and finally received an official document from the highest military tribunal exonerating him from the charge of being a deserter. We deliberated together on the chances of the recovery of his liberty, and a few days afterwards he was transferred to Holzminden. A Frenchman who was subsequently brought from this place to our prison informed us, in answer to our inquiries, that Werner had evaded the vigilance of the sentries and escaped into Holland, whence he had crossed to England, and a postal card recently received announced that he had joined the Belgian army and was looking forward to “settling some of his accounts with the Hun!”
In prison life one question looms up every day before many of the prisoners. It is that of possible escape. During the three years I spent in the Stadtvogtei several escapes took place. It would take too long to relate here a story in detail of all the escapes which occurred. I would like, however, to mention the case of two prisoners who evaded the guards on three occasions; twice getting through the lines of the camp of Ruhleben, and once escaping from the prison where I was confined. The two men were: Wallace Ellison and Eric Keith. They were Englishmen, and at the outbreak of hostilities they lived in Germany. Mr. Ellison was employed with the United Shoe Machinery Company, at Frankfort, and Mr. Keith was engaged with a firm the name of which I do not remember. He was born in Germany of English parents.
The first escape of both prisoners took place from Ruhleben camp at about the same time, but each in his turn had the misfortune to fall into the hands of Prussian Guards near the frontier of Holland. They were taken back to the jail at Berlin, where they were kept for several months in close confinement. Mr. Ellison was guarded solitary and alone for four months and a half. He was allowed no other food than the one daily serving of black bread and the two servings of the traditional soups.
Notwithstanding repeated applications to the German authorities for transfer to Ruhleben, they were forcibly detained in prison, because they refused to promise not to attempt further evasion. Numberless complaints were addressed by these prisoners to the Kommandantur and to the American Embassy in Berlin. All their efforts were unavailing. This happened in 1915 and 1916.
In December, 1916, what may be termed a wholesale escape took place. It was cleverly prepared a long time ahead. The prisoners somehow obtained the services of an expert locksmith, himself a prisoner. He made a key with which they were to open the prison gate facing on Dirksen street. Arrangements had been made with minute care. Provisions were obtained and forwarded outside to places known only to the prisoners concerned. All was ready and the day named for escape. Eleven prisoners of British nationality were walking in groups of two and three in the jail yard between five and six o’clock in the afternoon, in accordance with the daily custom. The doorkeeper occupied a room near the outer gate. He was at this time talking to a non-commissioned officer. The conversation was of a nature to absorb his whole attention. Thanks to this fortuitous circumstance, the rescuing key was introduced, unseen by the guards, into the lock by one of the eleven prisoners. A moment after the gate opened and eleven British prisoners disappeared from the jail and dispersed in the streets of Berlin. Ellison and Keith were amongst them.
There was a real sensation in the jail when the yard gate was found opened, fifteen minutes later. All the remaining prisoners were at once locked in their cells. It was the only means by which the authorities could ascertain exactly how many had succeeded in regaining their freedom.
The officer who had gone off duty at about four o’clock in the afternoon was apprised by telephone of what had taken place. Shortly afterwards he arrived in a state of great excitement. His first act was to throw the doorkeeper into a dungeon. By this time it had been learned that eleven British prisoners had disappeared. The detective office was notified, and telegrams were despatched to all the border towns in Germany, notifying the authorities to be on the look-out for the missing men. The whole force of detectives and the frontier guards were put on their mettle.
Of the eleven escaped prisoners, ten–to our great regret–were recaptured. Only one, a Mr. Gibson, got clean away. As to Ellison and Keith, they were caught after ten days and ten nights of exciting, exhausting experiences. The weather was very cold at that time, and one may imagine what sufferings these two prisoners underwent while attempting to wend their way to the frontier. The ten captured prisoners were brought back to the jail one after the other. The regulations henceforward became much more stringent and it was out of all question for them to make any further application for transfer to Ruhleben.
However, towards August, 1917, under an agreement made between Germany and Great Britain, their hardships were somewhat lessened. One of the clauses of this agreement stipulated that all prisoners who had attempted to escape, and as a consequence were actually confined in prison, should be immediately returned to the respective internment camps. The German newspapers were received at the jail every day, and no sooner had the report giving the clauses of this agreement been read than most of the prisoners concerned professed that they could foresee the dawn of their liberty. Ellison and Keith were particularly hopeful and they informed me that once at Ruhleben no long time would elapse before they would attempt to effect an escape into Holland.
Indeed, as early as September, they escaped from the Ruhleben camp, both on the same day, but acting separately. They rejoined in Berlin, and this time their attempt was successful. Together they succeeded in reaching Holland. A postal card addressed to me from that country by Mr. Ellison informed me of what had happened, without, of course, giving any details.
Amongst the prisoners who had sojourned for several months with these prisoners there was general rejoicing at their success. Last July I had the great pleasure of meeting Ellison and Keith in London. In the course of a never-to-be-forgotten evening we spent together, they related the events following their third escape. They told of their flight from Berlin to Bremen, from Bremen to the River Ems, then through the marshes a few miles from the German-Holland frontier, and, finally, their calling, at three o’clock in the morning, upon a Dutch farmer, where they learned that they were well out of Germany. It was a delight to hear these two men describe the rejoicing that was manifested in the home of that farmer, at their good fortune. The farmer’s wife, a worthy Dutch woman about sixty years of age, got up from her bed to welcome these two Englishmen. She prepared a hearty meal, after which the farmer, his wife, and my two friends danced together round the room in a delirium of joy. Mr. Ellison has since joined the English army and Mr. Keith the American army.
Another sensational escape was that of a Frenchman named B—. This man, a soldier in the French army, formed part of a platoon which, at the beginning of the war, was surrounded in a small wood in Belgium, in the neighborhood of the French frontier. In order to avoid falling into the hands of the Germans, he and some of his friends took refuge with a Belgian peasant. They discarded their uniforms and donned civilian clothes.
B— tried to flee to Holland by the north. He was caught and taken to the concentration camp for the French in Germany. After a few months’ time he again succeeded in getting away. He was dressed in a German uniform and even wore on his breast the ribbon of the Iron Cross. He was caught and thrown into a cell, at the Berlin jail. Here he was kept in solitary confinement, but finally was allowed to walk in the corridors just as we were allowed. Then he conceived the daring project of escaping through the roof, from his cell on the fifth floor of the building.
The windows of these cells, on the fifth floor, were underneath the roof which slightly overhangs, but which leaves no hold for the hand. The plan of this Frenchman was to saw through and remove an iron bar, get through the opening and climb on to the roof. This operation, which I was to witness, was duly executed. It necessitated, I must admit, a real acrobatic feat.
At eleven o’clock at night–so the prisoner informed me in advance–he would begin his attempt to escape. About that hour I stood on a chair so that my head was on a level with my window. In this way I could observe the Frenchman’s movements. We were on the same floor.
He managed to saw off the iron bar at its socket, and thus with a widened aperture he succeeded in passing through. He had protected himself with a towel tied to other bars in order to guard against a fall, which would inevitably have been fatal, since his window was sixty feet above the level of the paved yard.
My friend found a fulcrum on a small plank which he succeeded in placing at the top of his window, between the brick wall and the horizontal bars which hold the vertical bars. This plank projected about one foot beyond the outer wall. The working out of this scheme was exceedingly daring and dangerous, and almost incredible, and it was not long before the man, supporting himself with one hand on the little plank, reached, with the other, the water spout fixed on the roof, a short distance from the edge. The next instant he disappeared in the darkness. But having reached the roof, he was not yet “out of the wood,” for the outside of the prison formed a wall seventy-five feet high. My friend, however, had made a rope about sixty feet in length. He adjusted one end to the lightning-conductor and let the other end fall down the side of the wall. He slid down this rope to within about fifteen feet of the ground, and from that distance dropped on his feet.
We never saw him again, nor heard what became of him. But everyone of us, the officials included, were agreed that this escape was one of the most daring and extraordinary that had ever taken place.