CHAPTER XIV
IN GERMANY
Overcome by the tidings of what was to be my fate I had no inclination for lunch before I left Antwerp. In the evening I was seized by the pangs of hunger, and as there was a dining-car on the train I suggested to my guardian that we should take dinner.
My companion, however, did not understand one word either of English or French. I was unable to speak German at that time so our only mode of communication was by gesture and signs. The spectacle must have been quite comical to an onlooker. Finally I made the man understand that I wanted something to eat. In the dining-car we met with little encouragement. I understood the conductor to explain that the tables were reserved exclusively for officers and persons accompanying them. As my escort was but a non-commissioned officer we were politely but firmly refused refreshment.
At Cologne our every attempt to reach the station restaurant failed. The place was overcrowded, and my guardian naturally was very apprehensive that I might escape amid the throng. In this event he would have been severely punished. There was nothing to be done, so we returned to the train.
What a night was spent in that compartment among German travelers, taciturn or snoring!
Happily the nights in June are short. Soon dawn appeared radiant. I marveled at this wonderful reawakening of nature. As early as four o’clock I was able to resume my reading.
At nine o’clock we reached Berlin and I saw for the first time the capital of the German Empire. On the station platform a man whose name I was never able to ascertain glided beside us. He was dressed in civilian clothes, and after exchanging a few words with the non-commissioned officer it became manifest that he had assumed charge of the party. Outside the station this civilian, in all probability an officer of high rank, motioned me to get into an automobile. Then, addressing me in excellent French, he said: “Is this your first visit to Berlin?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Berlin is a very beautiful city,” he asserted.
I made no reply. We proceeded to drive through the streets–where to, I did not know. I had been under the impression that I was to be conducted to Ruhleben, the internment camp for civilians. I wondered whether I was being conveyed to a hotel or a boarding house, where prisoners en route to the camp were temporarily lodged. My chief hope was that I might obtain some food. It was now more than twenty-four hours since I had anything to eat. On our way to Berlin the non-commissioned officer had nibbled some bread he had in his knapsack, but I had no opportunity to break my fast.
The automobile was passing along a beautiful avenue. “This is Unter Den Linden, the finest avenue in Berlin,” said my new companion. One can be anti-German, and at the same time acknowledge that this thoroughfare is a charming one to behold. It stretches from the Brandenburg Gate to the Imperial Palace on the river Spree.
We passed the Imperial Palace and immediately afterwards turned into narrower streets. After a drive of about fifteen minutes we arrived in front of a huge building whose walls were a dirty grey. It was, as the reader will have guessed, the jail. I had arrived at my destination.
CHAPTER XV
THE STADTVOGTEI
We were in front of the Stadtvogtei. It is a prison well-known in Germany. In times of peace it lodges persons who are awaiting trial before the Court of Assizes, and to it political prisoners are consigned. It is situated on Dirksen street, about two hundred yards distant from the Alexandre Square, and adjoins the police headquarters. It is of immense construction, divided into triangular sections.
We halted at the front entrance and a few moments later we were admitted into an office where we found two soldiers, one a sergeant-major, and the other a non-commissioned officer. Up to this time I was not aware of the character of the place to which I had been brought. In fact, I was under the impression that it might, after all, be an hotel reserved for prisoners passing through Berlin. I had always in mind the information which had been given to me in Antwerp, namely, that I was to be interned at Ruhleben. I imagined this was a mere halting place where I should be given something to eat and afterwards taken to my ultimate destination.
I looked around, first examined the office and then observed the two soldiers. My first companion, the non-commissioned officer, and the civilian entered into conversation with the two soldiers. The non-commissioned officer took a document from his pocket, transferred it to the sergeant-major, who examined and signed it, and then gave it back to the non-commissioned officer.
The man in mufti, whose rank or profession I never knew, shook hands with me, while the two soldiers in the office stood to attention, their attitude being one of mingled respect and fear which is familiar to all who have visited Germany. The man then left me.
The next instant the non-commissioned officer invited me to accompany him along a dark corridor, thence up two flights of stairs to a cell which was already occupied by three prisoners.
I was at a loss to know what was to become of me. A confusion of ideas crossed my mind, but I could not now define any one in particular. I addressed my new companions in French, but they did not understand me. I next spoke in English and this time I had the pleasure of knowing that I was understood.
“Are you English?” I enquired.
“Yes,” they said.
“But what are you doing here?”
“Here,” they answered with a sad smile, “we are in jail!”
“In jail!” I repeated. “And I?”
“And you,” they said with the same sad smile, “you also are in jail!”
The names of the three English citizens I learned soon afterwards. The first was a Mr. Robinson, a jockey, who had lived in Germany for many years. He spoke German perfectly. The second was a Mr. Aaron, a naturalized British subject, a broker by profession, born in Austria, but who lived in Berlin. The third was a Mr. Stuhr, of Antwerp, who spoke German well, but French and English imperfectly. He was, I think, a machinist by trade.
I asked my companions if it were possible to obtain something to eat, explaining at the same time that for the past twenty-four hours I had been without a particle of food.
“Well,” said Robinson, “bread was distributed this morning at eight o’clock. There will not be any further distribution until to-morrow morning at the same hour.” It was less than encouraging.
“But,” I said, “there must be means of getting nourishment. Surely they will not deny my request when they know that I have been without food for so long. There must be a means to get food of some kind, somehow?”
That same sad smile and their demeanor told me as convincingly as any words could that my hopes were useless. They knew from their experience that I would get nothing to eat until the next morning.
“However,” said one of them, “I have some bread left over from this morning. I will give it to you, and Robinson will make some coffee.”
Robinson, a short, good fellow, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, brought from under the table an alcohol lamp and proceeded to the making of coffee. What a contrast to the comfort of the large hotels!
At about half-past nine o’clock that day I took my first meal in jail. It consisted of a crust of black bread and a cup of coffee, without milk or sugar. But to one as famished as I was, even this seemed a feast, and I expressed the gratitude I felt to my new companions for their kindness.
As I sat at the table, eating my frugal repast, my companions paced around the room. It was really a cell. An iron-barred window about six feet above the floor ran up the rest of the wall to the ceiling. From where I sat, the sky was visible above the walls of the prison yard. In the cell were four beds, made up as bunks. Placed at the table from which I was eating were four small wooden seats, without backs or arms. The walls were whitewashed, and in the centre of the massive iron door was a grating which would permit the guards to observe everything that took place in the chamber. There was a daily inspection, at about ten o’clock in the morning. The sergeant-major appeared and going from floor to floor he ordered the door of every cell opened in turn. He would scrutinize every occupant haughtily and then make his departure.
Seated at the table, my back towards the door, I was absorbed with my own thoughts–and my black bread–when Robinson, gliding towards me, lightly pulled my sleeve to invite me to get up. Realizing that something was going on behind me I half turned and I saw the sergeant-major, more Prussian-like than ever, standing in the doorway.
After we all had risen, he cried out in a stentorian voice: “Guten morgen!” It sounded to my ears more like an insult than a morning salutation. “What did he say?” I asked Mr. Aaron.
“Merely good morning,” he replied and at once added: “But every time this man bids you good morning, it sounds as though he were saying: ‘Go to the devil!’” He was Sergeant-Major Gotte.
CHAPTER XVI
LIFE IN PRISON
That section of the Stadtvogtei wherein I was confined could give shelter to two hundred and fifty prisoners in about one hundred and fifty cells. Some of the cells contained as many as eight prisoners and a large number of them did not measure more than 12, 13, or 15 cubic metres. The scantiness of these cavities forced the occupants to keep the window constantly open if they would have sufficient air to breathe.
The sections, as I say, were triangular in shape, the open space inside the triangle forming a yard, where prisoners were allowed to take a few hours’ exercise in the afternoon. Each and every cell had a window which opened on to the yard. Inside, a corridor followed the three sides of the triangle, and the windows in these corridors, which opened outwardly, were opaque, so that one’s view was blocked entirely. The windows were all iron barred. The building was one of five storeys counting the ground floor. On this floor were situated the dark cells or dungeons of which there were fourteen. The windows were darkened with outside shutters. Here were confined English prisoners who escaped from the internment camp of Ruhleben, and were recaptured on their way to Holland or Switzerland. According to an arrangement between Great Britain and Germany on the subject of punishment to be inflicted on civil prisoners who tried to escape from their respective internment camps no prisoner was to be kept in close confinement for longer than two weeks after recapture.
The Kommandantur of Berlin, and particularly Capt. Wolff, who appeared to be the “big gun” on the aforesaid Kommandantur, decided to place their own interpretation on this clause of the agreement. It was at about this time that we saw carpenters at work in the yard making more window shutters of the kind I have already mentioned, and afterwards whenever one or more British prisoners were overtaken after an attempt to escape from the camp they were each thrown into a dungeon where for four days they were kept in absolute darkness, and on a diet of bread and water. On the fifth day the window-shutter would be lowered sufficient to admit a little light, and soup such as other prisoners had took the place of water and was served with the bread. The prisoners were then subjected to four more days of close confinement in total darkness, at the end of which time they were again given a little light and the extra soup. The ordeal with four more days in the dungeon, making fourteen days altogether. Then these poor fellows were set free, that is to say they were free as we were–allowed to move around the cells from eight o’clock in the morning until seven o’clock in the evening, the monotony being broken by a few hours’ exercise during the afternoon.
Prison life was supremely monotonous. The nearest approach to recreation was the “privilege” of watching other prisoners passing in and out. About ten prisoners were discharged every day, and about the same number were admitted.
The section of the jail in which we were confined was under the primary management of the Kommandantur of Berlin. The Kommandantur was represented at the jail by an officer who remained there during the whole period of my incarceration. His name was Lober Lieutenant Block. Under that officer was a sergeant-major, and under the sergeant-major were seven non-commissioned officers and a doorkeeper, ranking as a non-commissioned officer. Two of the non-commissioned officers occupied an office on the ground floor. The others were assigned to duty on the several floors where they acted as inspectors or watchmen. The sergeant-major was responsible for the general superintendence of the jail and he made an inspection every day. As to the head officer his dignity was such that he would not condescend to pass through the corridors more than two or three times a week.
A mania which appears to be general among German officers and non-commissioned officers alike is to be both loud and violent every time they speak to subordinates or prisoners. Not a single day would pass without the walls ringing with the echoes of the cries and threats these men uttered to certain prisoners.
The poor Poles! What invective and abuse they had to endure!
I mention the Poles specially because from Poland there passed during my three years of captivity to the prison of the Stadtvogtei a greater number of prisoners than from any other place. Of two hundred and fifty prisoners quite two-thirds were of Polish origin. The other prisoners included English, French, Italians, Russians, Portuguese; in fact, all the nations at war with Germany were represented. At times there were Arabs, Hindoos, African negroes, Japanese, and Chinese.
What may surprise the reader is the fact that the four central powers themselves–Germany, Austria, Bulgaria, and Turkey–held constantly some of their own subjects in this prison. Germany never had less than from five to ten of her subjects in the jail. They were mostly political prisoners who were reputed to be a menace to the security of the German empire. I shall have occasion later on to speak about two prisoners, in particular, Socialist members of the Reichstag. But more than Germany and her allies and the countries with whom they were at war were represented in this prison. At different times, prisoners belonging to the neutral nations of Europe–Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Holland, Switzerland, and Spain–were guests at the Stadtvogtei.
How was this? the reader may ask. It is as easy to explain the imprisonment of these people as to explain the incarceration of German subjects. A Dane or a Hollander would visit Berlin on business or for other purposes. He would naturally frequent the cafés, and there enter into conversation with some Germans. If he imprudently ventured to criticize Germany’s foreign policy or her conduct of military or naval operations his fate was sealed. He would be allowed to return to his hotel; he would sleep peacefully the rest of the night, quite ignorant of the ugly fact that a sword was suspended over his head; but at seven o’clock the next morning, he would inevitably be called upon to follow a constable to the nearest station, whence he would be delivered over to the Stadtvogtei, the veritable clearing house of Germany. He would be ignorant of the cause of his imprisonment, and only after days, perhaps weeks, of protest and correspondence with the legation or embassy of his country, would he be submitted to an examination by the gentlemen (?) of the Kommandantur. If, eventually, he succeeded in regaining his liberty, he would be taken from jail direct to the frontier, without having the opportunity even to call back at the hotel for his personal baggage.
CHAPTER XVII
MEALS À LA CARTE
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.