CHAPTER XXVIII
SOME RECOLLECTIONS
During seven weeks’ sojourn in this charming little country of Holland, in the course of the many walks I took along the countryside, in the woods and parks, my thoughts reverted to that prison where I had lived for three years. My mind recalled certain conversations and certain incidents.
I spoke a little while ago of Lieutenant Block and his courteous manner towards me. It should not be inferred, however, from what I stated, that Prussianism was obliterated from him. He had the Prussian officer’s demeanor. He did not attempt to hide that he belonged to the autocratic and irrepressible military caste.
It will be remembered that in 1916 the Kaiser issued a proclamation pronouncing the reform of Parliamentary institutions in Prussia, and particularly the uniformity of electoral franchise for all citizens. Fear of the people is the beginning of political wisdom.
In Prussia, the representatives of the people are elected by three classes of electors, and although the Social-Democrats registered a sufficient number of votes to give them a third of the representation in the Prussian Diet, they were only a few deputies.
The Prussian Government, in conformity with the Imperial proclamation, had introduced a bill providing for the reform of the electoral franchise. The majority of the Prussian Parliament refused to adopt the projected law. At that time there was a violent controversy carried on in the German press on this subject.
There were in Germany then several newspapers with large circulations which could be designated as Liberal–that is to say, they were in favor of the principle of responsible government, not in Germany alone, but also in Prussia. They fought continually and stubbornly against the pan-German doctrine. I may cite the Frankfurter Zeitung, the Berliner Tageblatt, the Vossische Zeitung besides Socialist newspapers like the Volkszeitung and the Vorwaerts. At the jail we received all the German newspapers. I was a subscriber to the Berliner Tageblatt, and this newspaper was the only one on my table. I had much admiration for the publicist, whose name is well known in France–Theodore Wolfe. This journalist repeatedly condemned German autocracy in his articles–he did it so often that his writings became popular with all of us. He was frequently so outspoken that we really expected to see him arrive one fine day in our midst.
The officer during his daily visits observed the Tageblatt lying on my table, a fact which more than once gave rise to an exchange of views between us on the political institutions of Germany, and particularly on the Parliamentary situation as it existed in Prussia at that time. The Prussian Diet had just refused to adopt the draft of the bill above referred to. That same day the visiting officer entered my cell, his face beaming with smiles. He rejoiced–words were not strong enough, he said, to express the satisfaction he felt at what had happened. Prussia was to maintain her old system, the autocratic system under which this man was convinced she had achieved prosperity and greatness; and this it was that pleased him so much.
It is very difficult for us, accustomed, as we have become, to a democratic system, to conceive the voluntary abdication, on the part of a man of the standing and importance of Lieutenant Block, of all participation in the administration of public affairs. Here was a professor, a man between 35 and 40 years of age, who confessed and glorified in the fact that he had never voted! And when I expressed great surprise, and endeavored to ascertain from him what were the real motives of his abstention, he replied, with apparent sincerity: “Have we not got our Kaiser, who is at the same time King of Prussia, to efficiently govern the country?”…
Another instance which reveals something of the real heart of a Prussian officer is the following: We were at the epoch of the catastrophe which fell upon Britain when Lord Kitchener was drowned off the Scottish coast. This news was reported to me, like all other news of a disquieting character, with great eagerness by the visiting officer. Others may be amazed at the lack of tact, to say the least, here shown, as we in the prison were each of us amazed in turn.
“Kitchener has been drowned,” announced the officer with glee.
The news drew from me a pained expression of sorrow.
“How regrettable,” I cried.
The officer drew himself up to his full height, and his eyes flashed as he retorted, “Nicht fur uns. Nicht fur uns.” (“Not for us. Not for us.”)
“Listen,” I retorted. “The intention of my remark was to convey to you how regrettable it is that a soldier of the worth of Lord Kitchener, instead of finding a glorious death on the battlefield, should have perished in the manner reported.”
“Nicht fur uns. Nicht fur uns,” the Prussian insisted.
Many months passed. The man had evidently forgotten the incident of Kitchener’s death. One morning he came to my cell with face long, and expression sad. “Have you heard the awful news?” he asked me. “Richthofen has fallen.”
Richthofen, Germany’s most famous aviator, was dead after seventy-five great aerial victories.
“Yes, Richthofen has fallen,” the officer repeated. “Is it not regrettable?”
“Nicht fur uns. Nicht fur uns,” I answered without hesitation.
“How can you say that?” he said. “Is it not a matter of regret that a great hero like Richthofen should disappear?”
“Nicht fur uns,” I said again, not knowing what might be the outcome of my boldness.
“Why do you talk like this?” the officer asked.
“I am merely following your example,” I told him. “When I ventured to express my regret at Lord Kitchener’s death, regret that a soldier of his valor had been drowned, and not killed in the manner of the valiant soldier he was, you made use of this expression. To-day Richthofen has fallen, but he fell in the arena where his skill and genius and valor earned for him an immortal name. Acknowledge that his loss is regrettable for Germany, but you cannot expect the countries at war with Germany will experience regret in the same sense that you feel it, although I am sure they will pay just tribute to his valor as an aviator.”
The officer left me a few minutes afterwards. I do not know if he appreciated the appropriateness of my remarks.
One day I had a sharp discussion with Captain Wolfe, of the Kommandantur at Berlin. This officer occupied the position of a judicial war counsellor and held a high and responsible office at the Kommandantur. He was naturally vested with considerable authority. Nobody realized this fact more than those who were detained against their will, and in spite of just protests, in the jail on Dirksen street. Well, on the day to which I am referring Captain Wolfe visited the jail and condescended to hear me. That was his manner of answering the numerous petitions I had addressed to the military authorities during the previous months. Periodically I would undertake against the authorities what may be called an “offensive” for liberty. On this occasion I submitted to Captain Wolfe the fact that I had been arrested in a neutral country–that is to say, Belgium. I said that no foreign subject could lawfully be made a prisoner there, at least not until the military authorities had given all foreign subjects a fair opportunity to leave the territory.
“But Belgium is not, and was not, a neutral country,” Captain Wolfe protested.
“I do not understand you,” I said.
“Belgium,” he answered, “had become the ally of Britain and the enemy of Germany.”
“I still fail to understand you,” I said.
“Have you not read the documents which were taken from the archives at Brussels?” he asked. “These official documents constitute a solemn confirmation of my pretension that Belgium was allied with Britain.”
As a matter of fact, the Gazette de l’Allemagne du Nord (Die Nord Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung), a semi-official newspaper, did publish during the course of the winter of 1914-1915 a series of documents alleged to have been found in the archives of Brussels. No doubt these documents were likewise published in all the allied countries. They purported to contain the draft of a convention between a military or naval officer of Britain and the Belgian authorities concerning an eventual landing of British troops at Ostend. I had previously taken cognizance of these documents and incidentally of a commentary by a Belgian military expert to the following effect: “The landing of British troops in Belgium was only to take place after the violation of Belgian neutrality by Germany.” This correction removed from the documents all vestige of hostility against Germany.
After the publication of these documents comments from official sources were published in the press, and it was said, amongst other things, that the contents were known to the competent authorities in Germany before the declaration of war. I accordingly asked Captain Wolfe if this were true?
“It is,” he answered.
“Then how is it,” I further asked, “that the Imperial Chancellor, Von Bethmann-Hollweg, on August 4, made the following declaration before the Reichstag: ‘At the moment I am addressing you German troops have perhaps crossed the frontier and invaded Belgium’s territory. It must be acknowledged that this is a violation of the rights of the people and of international treaties. But Germany proposes and binds herself to repair all the damages caused to Belgium so soon as she shall have attained her military designs’?”
It is impossible to describe the officer’s embarrassment.
“Well,” he mumbled, in an effort to submit more or less of an explanation, “it was because Belgium also peremptorily refused to let us pass.”
The tone and manner of his “explanation” indicated plainly enough that Captain Wolfe was capitulating.
In the pan-German newspapers more particularly, this attitude of Von Bethmann-Hollweg before the Reichstag was much criticized. It was declared that such a statement constituted a sufficient reason for his immediate release from Chancellorship.
CHAPTER XXIX
OTHER REMINISCENCES
During the years 1916 and 1917, and for the first part of 1918, Germany possessed one god and one idol. The god was Emperor William and the idol was Hindenburg. It will be remembered that at the outbreak of the war Hindenburg was a retired general leading a peaceful life at Hanover. Thence the Emperor recalled him from retirement and relative obscurity and gave him the command of the German forces operating in Eastern Prussia. At that time the Russians occupied part of the Baltic Provinces. The Emperor, in examining the theses made by the different German generals, discovered that Hindenburg, a quarter of a century previously, had treated in his thesis the subject of an invasion of Eastern Prussia. He then sent for Hindenburg and committed to him the task of liberating the eastern territory from the occupation of the Russians.
We all know that Hindenburg accomplished this task victoriously and acquired for himself, particularly as the result of the famous battle of Tannenberg, a fame which surpassed that of any other Prussian general. Pressure was then brought to bear on the Emperor by his entourage with the object of placing Hindenburg at the head of the general staff; and, as a matter of fact, by a movement of the hand, Emperor William dismissed Von Falkenhayn, who was at that time chief of the general staff, and replaced him by Hindenburg.
The victory of Tannenberg was followed by several others, including that of Rumania, and then it was that the population of Berlin, no longer able to restrain their enthusiasm for Hindenburg, decided to erect in his honor a colossal monument on one of the public squares. The testimony of popular admiration took the shape of a wooden statue, forty-one feet in height, built at the end of Victory avenue, at the foot of the immense column known as the Victory Column, erected after the war of 1871 to commemorate the victory of the Germans over the French.
Opportunity was given to me on several occasions in the course of the outings I was allowed to make during the last year of my captivity, to observe with what veneration the people surrounded this misshapen, inartistic monument standing in the centre of the Tiergarten. Twice every week, as I have previously explained, I was privileged to take a walk around the garden, under the escort of a non-commissioned officer, and on no occasion did I neglect to walk towards this statue. A large number of people, particularly old men and women, accompanied by young children, crowded at the foot of the column near this immense wooden image. They would look at it, examine it with the air of people admiring its proportions and artistic qualities. But what was more curious and interesting was the means adopted to collect charity funds through this new Trojan horse. A scaffolding surrounding the statue furnished means for all to climb to the level of the head and contemplate from this close view the severe features of the great general.
At the foot of the scaffolding there was installed a species of ticket-office where one could purchase nails at a cost of one mark each (twenty-five cents). The purchaser of a nail was handed a hammer and accorded the privilege of driving a nail into the statue. The children particularly showed a great love for this sport. They could be seen crowding noisily round the ticket-office awaiting their turn, grasping in their little hands the silver coin with which to buy the nail. The ceremony of driving in the nail assumed a special character of patriotism. Hence it was quite a sight to see with what pride a child would return from performing the operation amidst the plaudits of the old men and the mothers. In this way large sums of money were levied and it is pertinent to say that Hindenburg was literally riddled with nails. One could choose the particular spot wherein to drive the nail–the feet, legs, body, arms, or head. I remember that copper-headed nails were driven into the head, copper not being so scarce at that period as it became afterwards.
The art reviews of Berlin never dwelt at any length on the artistic qualities of the monument. As a matter of fact, it was an ugly object. One day, however, a violent controversy was started in the newspapers between two sculptors as to which of the two was the originator of this genial idea. What an ambition!
It is no exaggeration to state that the popularity which Hindenburg enjoyed in Germany at this epoch was greater even than the veneration with which the Emperor himself was surrounded. Indeed, several non-commissioned officers often told me confidentially that Hindenburg’s popularity was very much greater than that enjoyed by the Emperor. The ascendency Hindenburg acquired over the imagination of the people never, in fact, ceased to disturb the mind of the Emperor. For this reason, at each new victory achieved under Hindenburg, Wilhelm would hasten eagerly to the battlefield and from the point where the victory was won he would flash a telegram to the Empress with the studied object of impressing on the minds of his subjects that his was really the strategic genius responsible for the success achieved. So much was this true that whenever a military operation developed itself in favor of Germany, either in Galicia or in Rumania, we knew how to predict, a day or two ahead, that a sensational despatch from the Kaiser to the Empress would be published in the newspapers. Rarely were we mistaken.
Among the prisoners of British nationality at the Stadtvogtei was one who, on several occasions, was suspected of exaggerated sympathies for the cause of Germany. He had become very unpopular, and many British prisoners refused to speak to him or have anything to do with him whatever. One day Mr. Williamson, to whom I have referred in a previous chapter, was called into the office to receive a package of provisions which had just arrived from England. After his package had been examined, another parcel was offered to him with the request that he carry it to the Englishman–the one I have referred to as being under suspicion–whose cell was situated on the same floor as that occupied by Williamson. The latter, who spoke a little German, formally refused to take charge of the package, saying to the non-commissioned officer, and in the presence of others: “I will not take the package, for I do not wish to have anything to do with this bloody German.” Williamson then left the office, taking with him only his own package.
The incident caused some commotion, as the non-commissioned officers reported the unsympathetic remark made by one prisoner towards another. On the following day all the prisoners of British nationality were requested to go down to a cell on the ground floor, and there the officer in charge of the prison addressed to us a very severe remonstrance regarding the incident. I recall one remark in particular. It was to the effect that “he did not venture to hope that we would openly renounce our sympathies towards Great Britain, but he would not tolerate for one instant any unkindly, disrespectful remark against Germany.” He cited the case in particular of Mr. Williamson and also that of Mr. Keith who, he said, was born in Germany, who had profited from Germany’s hospitality, who had received his education in the Public schools of the empire and who, nevertheless, every time an occasion offered itself, manifested his antipathy towards the country of his adoption. The officer finally menaced us with the remark that whoever was guilty in the future of disrespectful remarks would be severely punished.
This attitude of Officer Block created further prejudice amongst the British prisoners, and two of them, whose names I will not mention, organized a huge joke at his expense. Through a very clever stratagem, one of the pass-keys was juggled from one of the non-commissioned officers. This key would open every one of the doors inside the prison, but it would not open the outer door. With the aid of this key the two prisoners in question conceived the idea of unmercifully teasing the officer.
With much difficulty we managed to smuggle into the jail a copy of the London Daily Telegraph twice a week, in spite of an interdiction of all English and French newspapers. Needless to say, the Telegraph was circulated amongst all the British prisoners, and after each and every one of us had read it, the operation was crowned as a great joke against Officer Block himself.
By the aid of the aforesaid key, then, the door of the office would be opened during the breakfast hour while the officer was away, or during the closing hours of the day after he had left the jail, and the forbidden Daily Telegraph placed on his desk.
The second time this was done the officer became very angry and placed a non-commissioned officer at his door during his absence. This created a little difficulty, but our friends were not to be rebuffed by such a small matter.
As I tried to explain in a previous chapter, the section of the jail we occupied was triangular in shape. At seven o’clock in the evening a non-commissioned officer started to close the doors. He would first close the doors on one side of the triangle, and after doubling the angle he would start the operation on the second side. It was at this moment that one of the prisoners, occupying a cell on the third side, still open, would come surreptitiously with the famous key, open the door of one of the locked cells, and at the same time give the key to the occupant of the cell. He would then return hastily to his own cell. This was done, of course, very quickly and without being seen by the non-commissioned officer, who continued closing and locking the cells on the third side of the triangle, and then, under the impression that every prisoner was locked up, he would leave the jail.
In the course of the evening, or a little later, the British prisoner having a copy of the Daily Telegraph would, with the aid of the key, enter the office at the end of the corridor and succeed in putting the newspaper on the desk of the officer. He would return to his cell and his door would remain unlocked all night. On the following morning the non-commissioned officer would start to unlock the doors, invariably retracing the steps he had taken the previous evening. The same prisoner, coming out from his cell in the morning, would hurry across the side of the triangle still closed and would be handed the key from the one who had performed the overnight operation; would turn the key in the lock, and return to his own cell. When the non-commissioned officer reached the last side of the triangle he would find all the doors locked.
This stratagem was repeated for about ten days and amused all the prisoners in the Stadtvogtei more than I can describe. The officer took every means imaginable to catch the culprit, but, happily, he never succeeded. Finally, when he decided to place a sentry at the door of his office throughout the night, the owner of the key was forced to abandon his practical joking.
Turkey was handsomely represented at the Stadtvogtei during a couple of years; the Turk prisoners were one Raschid and the other Tager.
Raschid was a young man, about thirty-five years of age. He was lodged in a cell on the floor above ours and there kept in solitary confinement. He was arrested while passing through Germany, because he, too, openly manifested his sympathies for France. Like Tager, his compatriot, he had received a French education, and had lived in Paris for several years. This poor Raschid, who was locked up all day long, was not allowed to read or smoke, but several among us when apprised of his hard lot succeeded from time to time in providing him with some French books, cigarets and also with a little food. Professor Henri Marteau, the celebrated French violinist, was particularly moved by the misfortunes of Raschid. He was allowed to play the instrument in his cell, which during the latter part of his captivity was situated on the side of the triangle facing the cell in which Raschid was confined. And there he would draw from his violin marvelous strains that would send a ray of comfort to the poor Turk’s soul.
One night I was called to Raschid’s cell. He was very ill. And while we talked together I obtained a great deal of information from him. The conversation, being in French, was not understood by the attendant non-commissioned officer.
Raschid believed at that time that he had been entirely forgotten by the military authorities. He was confined for over five months before hearing one single reason why he was so barbarously treated. Then upwards of five months after his arrest, he was taken to the office of Gen. Von Kessel, high commanding officer in the Steps of Brandenburg. Raschid, with whom I talked on the day following this interview, related the incidents of his conversation with the great general. Von Kessel informed him that he would soon be liberated; that he would travel by express train through the Balkans on his way to Constantinople. The general asked him the following questions amongst others:
“How long have you been in jail?”
“One hundred and sixty-two days,” answered Raschid.
“How long have you been in solitary confinement?”
“One hundred and sixty-two days.”
Here the general burst out laughing.
“One hundred and sixty-two days!” he exclaimed; “how is that?”
“I do not know,” replied Raschid.
“This is strange! This is strange! This is strange!” repeated the high Prussian commander.
Without asking further information, the general sent Raschid back to his cell. A few days later Raschid left us for better surroundings.
Tager was a man about fifty years of age, who came to Berlin provided with a passport from the German Minister in Switzerland. He was to return to Paris, where he resided, but one day was arrested and brought to the Stadtvogtei. He was never told during his captivity–which lasted four months–why he was interned. For my part, I never knew any other reason than that he had expressed pro-French sentiments.
One day he was informed that he was to leave the jail for a French officers’ internment camp. His departure was fixed for December 7, 1915. During his short (?) sojourn among us Tager won the esteem of the prisoners of British nationality. I was the only one, however, to whom he confided anything about himself. He informed me one day, in great confidence, that he was a Great Rabbi of Turkestan. Judging by the way he pronounced his title, one would believe that his rank in Mohammedan countries corresponded to that of a lord in England. He entreated me not to reveal this to anyone.
Well, the British prisoners met together in a cell and decided to offer him a luncheon at the jail on the day of his departure. It was a formidable enterprise.
On the day fixed, a table of fifteen plates was laid in my cell. The plates, I need hardly remark, had to be set very close one to the other! At one o’clock, three of us went as a delegation to bring Tager, who did not understand what the whole thing meant.
Before luncheon, I told my British comrades that it was my intention to “reveal” to them, when the toasts were proposed, that our guest, Tager, was a Grand Rabbi of Turkestan, and although this title meant nothing to me or to them, I urged that they should display great enthusiasm at my disclosure and give Tager an ovation.
Luncheon was about to end, when I got up to propose the health of Tager. In concluding my speech, I duly informed my friends that I was about to create a sensation amongst them. Then, amid profound silence, I solemnly said that I deemed it my duty, notwithstanding the natural modesty of Mr. Tager, to reveal one of his titles to universal respect and admiration.
“Mr. Tager,” I said, “is a Grand Rabbi of Turkestan, a fact which he always hid from us.”
On this statement, everyone stood up and united in a loud chorus of “bravos.” Then, according to time-honored custom, one of the party led the popular refrain, “For he’s a jolly good-fellow.” We had scarcely got through the first part of the song when Hufmeyer, a non-commissioned officer, burst into my cell and called on us to stop. He was too late, however. We had then given full vent to our enthusiasm for Mr. Tager.
Liebknecht was not the only one to draw upon himself the wrath of the military authorities in 1915, 1916, and 1917.
I shall never forget the pathetic sight presented by a worthy old fellow who was interned with us for many months. He was Professor Franz Mehring, a gentleman seventy-one years of age. In April, 1915, Mehring issued a proclamation in favor of an immediate peace. The proclamation contained not only his signature, but also those of Rosa Luxemburg and de Ledebour. This was sufficient to merit a taste of the Stadtvogtei. Mehring, like Borchardt, belonged to the Spartacus group. A very learned man and a fine talker, he enabled us to spend with him many interesting and never-to-be-forgotten hours. These names of Mehring and Borchardt, of which I had guarded but a slight remembrance, have become of great importance since the revolution broke out in Germany. Mehring remained for some time in the jail. After his liberation he became a candidate for the seat left vacant by Liebknecht at Potsdam. He was defeated, but his subsequent candidature had a happier sequel in his election, for another constituency, to the Prussian Diet. He was returned by a large majority and at the time of writing is a member of the Prussian Parliament.