A Soldiers’ Ball
I cannot dance, but there is always a portion of the ball, at least, to the beholder. Captain Sugrue and I had looked into the Gasthaus at the Railway Crossing. It was an animated scene which met our eyes. The saloon was decorated with flags and festoons of red roses, while about eighty couples, composed of German soldiers and their sweethearts—these last with countenances of a colour to match the decorations—danced on almost without cessation. Certainly there were intervals, but these were of the shortest duration. The cavaliers would approach, possibly with a short bow; more frequently the overture was merely a smart tap upon the shoulder, and they were off. A little orchestra of piano, violins and ’cello, was housed on a little stage, upon which at one time there mounted the Master of the Ceremonies to announce the finding of a lady’s girdle.
Captain Sugrue and I also made various excursions afoot to townships within a radius of ten or twelve miles from Beeskow. One of these expeditions took us to the little village of Radinkendorf, where, after some research, we found a very modest little Gasthof, where an old woman undertook to supply us with coffee.
Whilst we waited, and she worked her coffee-mill, she invited us in motherly fashion into an inner room for warmth. Presently the coffee was prepared, and while we sipped it, “Where do you live?” inquired the aged woman.
“Zu Beeskow,” I replied. “We are prisoners.”
“Ah, das macht nichts,” said the dame kindly. “Das macht nichts. We are all human. Warum ist der Krieg?” distressfully, and touching her forehead with her finger as if in despair of a solution. “Why is the war? Why? Why?”
I could not tell her.
On another occasion Tim and I footed it to the small town of Friedland, which at one time, apparently, has had a Jewish population. As we sat together in the dusk by the stove in the Gasthaus, there entered a German soldier obviously fresh—but as obviously fatigued—from the front. He approached, recognizing our calling, but anticipating kinship, and was rather nonplussed on discovering our nationality. He told us that for the last days his company had been retiring at the rate of thirty kilometres a day, and leaving almost everything behind them.
Before returning we paid a visit to the Rathaus—in the Middle Ages the Castle of the Herren von Köckeritz. With his walking-stick Tim measured the walls—which are of amazing thickness—to the no small surprise of several members of the clerical staff who appeared at the window.
MURILLO’S “IMMACULATE CONCEPTION OF THE VIRGIN.”
Painted by a French officer, prisoner of war, on the outer wall of the camp in 1915.
CAPTAIN TIM SUGRUE
XII
In Berlin during the Revolution
On a Friday evening of early December, my dear friend and fellow-prisoner, Captain Tim Sugrue, and I conspired to take French leave from the German prison Lager and make a bolt for Berlin. Six o’clock next morning found us at the station; a little diplomacy and we had obtained tickets—singles only, as we must return by a different route.
From Beeskow to Berlin is a run of two hours and a half. For the latter part of the journey we are with business men. There is unfolding of newspapers, and we catch sight of occasional headlines. Street fighting in Berlin last night; 14 killed, 50 wounded. Anything may be expected to happen to-day—which means that anything may be expected to happen to us.
As we pass Karlshorst an obliging German directs our attention to it as the German Derby; as we enter the environs of the town he has a pointing hand for various features of interest.
Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse. As we make our way out through the barriers among the crowd, a tall, handsome gentleman and a young lady—equally handsome—who is obviously his daughter, seem to convey to us a telepathic smile of friendliness. In a few minutes we find them beside us in the throng; there comes a whisper in not entirely perfect English, “Thank God, Britain has won!”—and then they are gone. With a quick understanding the girl collector at the barrier permits me to retain my ticket as a souvenir.
We have had no breakfast; we are hungry; we make so bold as to enter a restaurant near the station. The waiter attends us, without apparent curiosity, and as of long custom. For three marks we have a fried haddock, some salad, and a cup of coffee. We could easily have paid as much in London for as little—we could easily have paid more. For proof of my veracity to future historians, I slip a menu card into my pocket.
From the instruction of a rather intelligent Posten at Beeskow I have taken the precaution to prepare a rough plan of the centre of this most centralized of all great cities. We pass up Friedrichstrasse, and at the point where it intersects Unter den Linden pause for a moment, undecided as to left or right. It immediately becomes apparent that we must not pause, even for a moment. We are already the centre of a curious little crowd.
“What can I do for you, Captain?” Hat in hand, a youth of seventeen or eighteen approaches. We explain that we are simply up for the day, so to speak, and as I can see what is obviously the Dom on our left, we make off at a sharp pace down the boulevard.
The people have seen British officers before; it is only when it dawns upon them that we are unaccompanied by a guard that their eyes begin to open. There is no hint of hostility, however. Twice during the day we are directly asked by civilians if we are in advance of a possible army of occupation.
The Dom is the St. Paul’s of Berlin, but it is less impressive. The organist is here, however, blowing what are doubtless his own very real personal sorrows to the roof. As he passes into a fugal passage I observe that, as at Beeskow, the pipes of the instrument have taken flight.
The picture gallery is closed to-day, but entrance is to be had to the gallery of sculpture, and entrance we make. Tim is obviously impatient; sculpturesque life is not sufficiently full-blooded for him. Consequently I approach an attendant, and request that he discover to us the most celebrated items of his collection. Whereupon is opening of doors, unlocking of cabinets, up-pulling of blinds, and letting in of more light generally.
Most celebrated of all is a Grecian sculpture of 480 B.C., taken from the Louvre in 1870. When I suggest, as delicately as may be, that there is danger of it having to make further journeyings, the attendant sighs, and softly replaces the covering curtains. Young Hercules killing the snakes; a Badender Knabe; Göttin als Flora ergänzt; Trauernde Dienerin vom Grabmal der Nikarete aus Athens; a few hasty impressions—but how refreshing; white clouds in a summer sky—and Tim has haled me forth into the streets.
On the galleries, as on all similar public buildings, has been posted a placard in vivid red, “Nationales Eigentum!” National Possession.
It almost might seem as if in these penurious days for Germany, inventory of the national possessions had been taken, and, having been found to be but scanty, decision had been arrived at to hold fast to what few poor things appeared to be real and tangible! Everywhere also one finds vehement posters in red, inciting—to order! Pictured soldiers, open-eyed with terror, open-mouthed with message, beating alarum drums; sailors frantically waving flag signals of distress.
Palaces, memorials, museums, bridges; with much that is to be admired, Berlin seems so heavily encrusted and over-weighted with ponderous decoration, as to convey an impression almost that the ground may give way underfoot. That the solid foundations of things have given way must be more than an impression with many of these drawn-faced, dejected-looking passers-by. In the architecture there is a suggestion of London, of Paris, of ancient Rome—a suggestion of ancient Rome that is strongest, however, in a chill and deadly feeling of decline and fall. On many of the buildings, and particularly on the Königl. Marstall, is the markings of machine-gun fire—the guns have played upon the windows quite apparently like fire hose for the putting out of a difficult conflagration. On one of the palaces is stuck a sheet of paper written upon boldly and carelessly with blue pencil:
“Für Ebert und Hasse.”
Nationales Eigentum with a vengeance! Whether they are using the Royal suite for bureau or bedroom, or both, I know not.
At all points, and indeed acting as police for the city, are soldiers and sailors of the security service with white bands on their arms. Large parties of these men patrol the streets, with a peculiar movement in the column due to juxtaposition of the measured military step, and the easy swing of the sailor. We would pass such companies with a more or less unseeing eye, but we are continually assailed by cheery greetings of “Wie geht’s?” and “Guten Morgen!”
If we pause before a public building, a soldier or sailor immediately approaches and asks if we desire to enter. In suchwise we get glimpse of a number of the important public institutions, including the modern and rather magnificent Royal Library. In the Royal Opera House, despite the revolution, performances are announced for to-night of Verdi’s “Otello,” for to-morrow (Sunday) night of “Rigoletto.”
Some of the streets running off Unter den Linden bear marks of yesterday’s fighting; some of them are still big with agitation; groups and queues of gesticulating soldiers and civilians. We pass the Legations and through the Brandenburger Tor into the Tiergarten, and take leisurely view of the Reichstag, looking deserted and dejected, and as if all the glory of debate had departed from it for ever. Here is the Siegessäule and the Denkmal to Bismarck, Moltke, and the long lineage of German warriors. Here also is the Hindenburg statue, looking decidedly forlorn and rather foolish. Tim and I decide that it would hardly be expedient for us to drive in a couple of nails!