My Three Years in a German Prison

CHAPTER XX MACLINKS AND KIRKPATRICK CHAPTER XX MACLINKS AND KIRKPATRICK 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. CHAPTER XXI A SWISS AND A BELGIAN 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!” CHAPTER XXII SENSATIONAL ESCAPES 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. CHAPTER XXIII HOPE DEFERRED It was in the month of May, 1916. I had then been a prisoner at the Stadtvogtei for one year. Repeated requests made by myself, through the American Embassy, and made on my behalf by the Canadian and British Governments to secure my freedom, had been of no avail. Sometimes my requests were not even acknowledged. I began to fear I might remain a prisoner until the end of the war. One evening, about seven o’clock, after all prisoners had been locked up for the night, a non-commissioned officer employed in the office of the jail opened my cell and stated that he had good news for me. “What news?” I asked. “You are to be liberated,” he answered. “When?” “The day after to-morrow–Saturday. This news was telephoned a moment ago from the Kommandantur, and I have been instructed to inform you of the fact.” I could not resist shaking the non-commissioned officer’s hand to thank him for the good news he brought to me. My door was hardly closed before I was standing on my chair at the window calling to my companions in captivity–that is to say, the men with whom I was in daily contact. I shouted to them the good news. They called back their congratulations and were sincerely happy at my good fortune. The following day we appointed a real feast day when all the British prisoners should take part in celebrating the promise of my liberation. We decided to hold a reunion in my cell. We even resolved to organize a dinner! Remember, this was in 1916, when everybody in Berlin was subjected to food rationing. Our only diet was the prison menu. This meant that we had a real problem on our hands if we were to prepare an acceptable meal. Invitations had been sent to all the British prisoners requesting the pleasure of their company to lunch that same day, “in Parlor No. 669, in the International Hotel of the Stadtvogtei, to meet Mr. Beland and celebrate his approaching departure for England.” The invitation cards bore the following instructions: “Each guest is requested to bring his plate, knife, fork, tea-cup, glass, and his own bread. Salt will be supplied on the premises.” My table was placed in the centre of the cell. We had covered it with paper napkins, and had succeeded in obtaining some canned meat. At that time this was a marvelous accomplishment, believe me. The dinner was a very joyful one. Toasts were proposed and congratulatory speeches were made. The following afternoon I was granted leave to go to the city. For the first time, after twelve months’ incarceration, I was allowed to walk the streets! It was late in May. The vegetation was luxuriant and for the first time in a year I enjoyed the liberty of walking among the verdant foliage and flowerbeds of the square adjoining the prison. Never before had nature appeared so wonderfully beautiful. I was tempted to smile even at the Germans who walked about the streets. Two hours later I returned to the jail, and learned that my departure, which had been fixed for the next day, would be delayed owing to the fact–so I was told–that a certain document had not yet been signed by the high command. It was represented to me that the signing of this document was a mere formality, and my release was a thing decided and assured. I was to be allowed to leave on the following Wednesday. On the Tuesday, I was ready to start. My baggage was packed. Then I was advised once more that the missing document had not yet arrived; that I must wait a few days longer. Of course, I was very much distressed at this repeated delay, but I tried to be patient through the ensuing two weeks, which appeared centuries to me. One day I was called into the office of the jail. Major Schachian had come to explain that the Kommandantur in Berlin had really decided to give me my liberty, to allow me to go back to my family in Belgium, and particularly to be near my wife, who had been ailing for six months–but a superior authority had now over-ridden this decision. One can conceive my disappointment. I remarked to that officer that being a physician I was being detained contrary to international laws; that, moreover, I had on several previous occasions received assurances from the military authorities in Antwerp that I should not be molested; that I had practised my profession, not only in a hospital, before the fall of Antwerp, but since that date among the civil population of Capellen. The officer did not attempt to deny all this, but he said: “You practised medicine for charity; you did not practise it regularly.” Was it conceivable that a man of his position and intelligence could make such a remark? I was astounded, and dared to reply: “I always understood the liberty of physicians in time of war was guaranteed by international conferences, because physicians are in a position to relieve the physical sufferings of humanity, and not because they may be allowed to make money.” The officer saw he had made a bad break, as the popular expression has it. He attempted to effect a retreat in the best order he could. He was really embarrassed, and left me, while I returned to my cell, my heart bowed down by deception and disappointment. A full year elapsed before any substantial change was made in my life of captivity. CHAPTER XXIV A COLLOQUY I had been in prison then for two years, seeing nothing outside but the sky and a wall pierced by some fifty iron-barred windows. For two short hours, one year before, as stated in the previous chapter, I had been granted the privilege to walk on the streets, to breathe the free atmosphere of the city. My general health was bad. I could neither read nor sleep. Mentally I was seriously depressed. I had abandoned all hope of regaining my liberty before the end of hostilities. But one day the old jail physician, a very kind man, Dr. Becker, visited me in my cell. We had previously talked together on medical matters. He knew, of course, that I was habitually called to attend the sick during the twenty-three hours he was absent every day from the prison. He had placed at my disposal his little dispensary. Indeed, from the medical point of view, one can truthfully say that between the prison doctor and myself diplomatic relations were never severed. The object of his visit to me now was to inquire about my health. He had noticed that my general appearance left much to be desired. “Well, how are you?” he asked on entering my cell. “Bad,” I replied. “I am truly sorry,” the doctor remarked. “I have observed lately that you appeared to be far from well.” “The fact is,” I told him, “I cannot sleep nor eat. I am very nervous, and I feel weak and depressed.” The old German practitioner eyed me critically through his spectacles, and it seemed to me that through his glasses I could see reflected a feeling of genuine sympathy. “But,” he urged, “you are a physician. You know, perhaps, just what it is that is particularly ailing you.” “Nothing more than the effects of continuous, close confinement,” I answered. “You know, I have been deprived of fresh air and exercise for the past two years.” “But, surely,” he exclaimed, “you go out when you feel so disposed!” “What do you mean?” I asked him. “Do you profess to believe that I have the privilege of going out of the prison for exercise, according to my free will?” “I do,” the doctor replied. “Well,” I rejoined, “all I have to say is that I cannot understand how you, the doctor of this prison, have never learned that during the two years I have been here I–like every other prisoner–never am permitted to go on the street. I may say that during this period the only occasion on which I was allowed to go outside was just one year ago. I was then granted special leave to visit the stores to buy a few things necessary to my departure for Belgium. I had been promised liberty, and the promise was not fulfilled. With the exception of this outing of two hours, I have been confined within the walls of this prison continuously for the past two years. You know how vitiated the atmosphere of these corridors becomes, since hundreds of prisoners must traverse them every morning as they are engaged in the work of cleaning their cells after thirteen hours’ seclusion therein. You know the yard in which we are permitted to spend a few hours each afternoon. You know as well as I do that when one has walked seventy paces he has traversed the whole limit of the three sides of the triangle. This yard is bounded by walls seventy-five feet high; thirty-five toilet cabinets, as well as the cell windows and the kitchens, open on to it, and I believe its atmosphere is even worse than that I breathe in my cell.” “Well,” said the doctor after listening to me with an air of pained attention, “I am surprised. Why don’t you make application to the authorities asking to be allowed to go into the city, for a daily walk? I will support your demand.” I thought the opportunity favorable to tell the doctor what I thought of the arbitrary conduct the authorities had shown towards me. “Well, you will excuse me,” I said, “if I say that I cannot act upon your kind suggestion. It has become impossible for me to ask any favor from the German Government.” “Why?” he asked. “Because each and every fair, reasonable and just request which I have hitherto made has been either ignored or refused. God only knows how many requests and petitions I have addressed to the German authorities during the last two years.” “What did you ask for in particular?” he inquired. “First,” I said, “I protested against my internment, pointing out that in my quality of physician it was contrary to international laws to keep me in captivity. In reply, I was told there was no documentary proof that I was a doctor. This was at the beginning of my captivity. Through the American Embassy I obtained from the Canadian College of Physicians and Surgeons, and from the university from which I was graduated, the documents which established that I was a licensed and practising physician. I was informed in the month of October, 1914, that these documents had been remitted to the competent authorities here, in Berlin. I then renewed my demand for liberty. I repeated over and over again my requests, but without any other results than that of seeing, after two or three months’ anxiety and trouble, an officer of the Kommandantur who came and took my deposition to prove why I came to Belgium in the first place and what I had done in that country since my arrival. All these things the authorities had known for a long time. I had to sign an insignificant transcript of the proceedings made by the officer, who left me with an ill-concealed air of mockery at my misfortunes. “My wife,” I went on, “was taken ill. For many months her illness advanced. The news received each week from my children and the doctor indicated clearly that recovery was hopeless. I begged to be allowed to visit my wife. I received no answer to my request. During the last two weeks of her illness I was notified by telegram that the case was urgent and I was urged to hasten to my wife’s bedside. I besieged the Kommandantur with daily petitions for leave of absence, but no answer was vouchsafed. I offered to pay the expenses of two soldiers to accompany me from Berlin to Antwerp, and to return the next day. This request was curtly refused. My correspondence was held up for about twelve days and during that critical time I was without news of my family, and after these twelve days of unspeakable anguish an officer informed me that my wife was dead. I implored him to go immediately to the Kommandantur and ask permission to accompany me to Antwerp and Capellen that I might be present at the funeral. His reply was ‘Madam was buried two days ago!’ “You will understand, doctor, that after being treated in such an inhuman manner, it is quite impossible, while I maintain my self-respect, to ask for any favor from the German Government. I was refused justice when I entreated for what was just. I have nothing to demand now.” My statement perceptibly saddened and embarrassed the old doctor. Apparently I had opened his eyes to a phase of German mentality which he had not hitherto realized. He hesitated for a few seconds and then promised that he would at once take steps to alleviate my suffering and relieve some of the pressure of the hard prison regime. He fulfilled his promise. Two days afterward instructions were received which bore this out. At the same time it should be remembered that the German authorities were mindful of the possibility of reprisals from Great Britain after the fact had become known in London that my health was seriously threatened by my internment. The new instructions now issued to the jail authorities stipulated that I was to be permitted to go out of the jail on two afternoons of each week, under the escort of a non-commissioned officer. I was to be allowed to walk in a certain park, but must not communicate with anybody during my promenades. Moreover, the officer and his prisoner were to make the short journey to the park and return by railway. I, of course, at once availed myself of this privilege to go out and breathe the fresh air twice a week, and this contributed to a very appreciable extent to re-establish my health, physically and mentally. CHAPTER XXV INCIDENTS AND OBSERVATIONS A few weeks after entering prison I was called into the office on the ground floor, where I found myself face to face with a person entirely unknown to me. “I am Mr. Wassermann, manager of the German Bank,” said this visitor, in introducing himself. “Are you Mr. Beland?” “Yes, sir; I am,” I replied. “Then be seated,” he continued. “The day before yesterday I received a letter from one of my fellow-countrymen who is resident in Toronto. He informs me that he has learned from the Canadian newspapers that you are interned here, and he asks me to interest myself on your behalf. My friend adds that he, himself, has not received the slightest annoyance from the Canadian Government. Will you tell me if there is anything I can do for you?” “You could, no doubt, obtain for me my freedom,” I told him. “I would like to do it,” he answered, “and I will do all that I can in order to be useful to you, but I really do not know to what extent I may succeed. Is there anything else I can do?” “Nothing that I know of.” “Is your cell comfortable?” “I occupy a cell in company with three others.” “Would it be more agreeable to you if you were assigned to a cell exclusively your own?” “It would, indeed,” I said, “for then I could work with more comfort.” Mr. Wassermann then left me, and a few days after our interview I was removed into a cell reserved for myself alone on the fifth or top floor of the prison. Here the atmosphere was purer than in the other cell, as there was better ventilation. It was brighter, and I had a wider outlook of the sky. I occupied this cell for three years. The prison was heated by a hot-water system, which was shut off each day at about two o’clock in the afternoon, so that in the evening the atmosphere generally was very cold, so cold in fact, that frequently I would have to go to bed as early as seven o’clock, directly the cells were locked, in order to keep myself warm. We were allowed to write two letters and four postal cards each month. This was a rule which applied to all prisoners in Germany, without distinction. A letter addressed to a foreign country was detained for a period of ten days, and all correspondence sent by us or directed to us was minutely censored, detention of the letters and censure of the letters being practised as a “military measure.” During the whole period of my imprisonment I never received one single copy of a Canadian newspaper, although I know now that quite a number were from time to time addressed to me. Courses of instruction in French, English, and German were given daily at the jail, but only on very rare occasions were there any religious services, either Protestant or Catholic. I recall only two or three occasions during the whole of my captivity on which I had the privilege of attending chapel, which was situated in another section of the prison. German newspapers of all shades of political thought were received in the jail, whether pan-German, Liberal, Conservative or Socialistic in their tendencies. But we were not allowed to read either English or French newspapers, though we knew the big dailies of Paris and London were available at the principal news stands in Berlin. This does not mean, however, that I did not get a glimpse at both English and French newspapers during my captivity. It sometimes happened that one or other of the incoming prisoners had either a London or Paris newspaper concealed in his pockets. There were other means also through which we were able from time to time to obtain newspapers from the allied countries. Christmas is always celebrated with great pomp in Berlin. On Christmas Eve the prisoners enjoyed a small celebration amongst themselves. There was a Christmas tree, and two or three officers of the Kommandantur, accompanied by a few ladies, came and distributed gifts, which were, for the most part, of the nature of provisions for the most needy of the prisoners. On Christmas Eve, 1915, enough food was distributed to give each prisoner a good meal. In 1916, when food had become scarce, there was no distribution of provisions, but each prisoner received as a gift an article of underwear or a new pair of socks. In 1917, there was a Christmas tree, but no gifts of any kind. The economic situation in the interior of Germany had become such that neither food nor clothing were available for the prisoners. In the course of one of my walks in the park during the last year of my imprisonment, I saw the then idol of the German people–the great General Hindenburg. Accompanied by an officer, he was driving in an automobile along the street which borders the Tiergarten. My escort and I were on the sidewalk when the famous general passed. I had a distinct view of his features. When we got back to the jail my companion announced with great gusto to his fellow-officers that he had seen General Hindenburg. As they received his announcement with incredulity, I was called upon to corroborate the statement of my escort, and then they looked upon me with actual envy. According to their way of thinking, I was one of the luckiest men on earth! The mere sight of so great a general, they thought, should be regarded as a red-letter day in a man’s life history! Such was their veneration, respect, and admiration for the chief of staff. Bismarck in all his glory was never arrayed in such a halo of glory as Hindenburg wore in the mind’s-eye of the Germans of that day. The German people are not demonstrative. They are taciturn and dreamy. One day I was on the station platform waiting for the train to take me and my guard to the park. The noon editions of the newspapers were on sale and were being bought with avidity. They contained some sensational story or another. It was, according to the best of my memory, the report of the Austro-German offensive directed against the Italians in November, 1917. The advance on the enemy and the capture of forty thousand prisoners were announced in scare headings. After glancing over the news myself, I turned to observe the attitude of the readers around me. I continued my observations as the train moved out of the station, and I did not notice one smile among the whole crowd of Germans; nor was there any apparent desire on the part of any man to discuss the events with his neighbor. To them the news appeared to be one of the most natural events in the world. I asked myself: Have these people commenced to realize that all these victories do not bring the war any nearer to the end they desire? Or, has their feeling of enthusiasm become deadened by three years of unrelenting fight? I leave it to the reader to appreciate now, in the light of subsequent events. The first American citizen interned in the Stadtvogtei was an unhealthy-looking man whose name I now forget. It was during the absence of Mr. Gerard, the United States Ambassador, in the month of October, 1916, I believe. This man claimed that he never would have been interned if Mr. Gerard had been in Berlin. He often expressed to us fears as to the security of Mr. Gerard. He was under the impression that Germany desired his disappearance, and that on his return to Germany the United States Ambassador ran a great danger of being sent to the bottom of the sea. He was convinced that Mr. Gerard was extremely hated in Berlin and was considered the enemy of Germany’s interests. It may not be out of place to mention here that at one time there was quite a controversy in the German newspapers concerning Mrs. Gerard. Certain sheets had accused Mrs. Gerard of lack of good manners, and this to the extent of having on one occasion pinned the Iron Cross to the collar of her pet dog and to have promenaded the streets of Berlin with the animal thus “dressed up.” The alleged incident created such a stir that the semi-official newspaper “Le Gazette de l’Allemagne du Nord” published an editorial on the subject. It was therein stated that the allegations against Mrs. Gerard were false and that Mr. and Mrs. Gerard had conducted themselves always in a manner absolutely above reproach. Very seldom a day passed without one of the non-commissioned officers submitting this question to the British prisoners, “When shall we have peace?” The answer was invariably the same: “We did not know.” How could we? However, the question gave the Prussians an excuse for prolonging a conversation, during which we would be told that Germany wished for peace, but that the obstacle was England. On more than one occasion several among us–notably a Belgian named Dumont, who never minced his words–retorted: “But why did you start the war?” On one occasion a non-commissioned officer, to whom this question was directly put, insisted that Germany never wished nor planned the war, neither did she start it. “You are quite right; you are a thousand times right as to starting it,” cried Dumont, giving expression to his anti-German sentiments, “it was not Germany that started the war. We, the Belgians, started it!!!” The remark was greeted with general laughter, and the non-commissioned officer, in confusion, turned on his heels and left us.

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