Captivity de Luxe!
Behold next morning two British Gefangenen in the capital of Germany, pillowed luxuriously in bed, pulling the bell-rope insistently, and, a waiter appearing, making demands for an immediate serving of coffee. Not only so, but having search made in the German Bradshaw for the hour of departure of the train which was to convey us back to prison, and the time at which we could attend a celebration of Mass.
St. Hedewick is a great circular cathedral, not without a certain impressiveness, particularly when crowded as it was on our arrival. The service was in progress, and from the great organ came a sound like a rushing mighty wind. When we emerged it was raining, and we decided to call as invited on our Russian friend of yesterday. We made our way to the address circuitously and laboriously, receiving direction—and misdirection—from a sailor sentry, who left his post and accompanied us for a ten-minutes’ march to put us on the proper car. “I have to Hartlepool and Gateshead been,” he said.
The Russian family were delighted to see us, and extended what hospitalities they could, generously and graciously. They advised us to leave Berlin by the afternoon train, as the revolutionary storm which was obviously brewing was expected to burst blood-red that day. “I will see you to the station, then I shall not leave the house again.”
A nephew entering at this time, he undertook charge of us. As we stood on the platform of the tram, there tore alongside of us a motor-car, driven furiously, and full of soldiers and sailors who bombarded us with copies of the revolutionary paper, the Rote Fahne (Red Flag), and with leaflets making call for a great mass meeting of the Spartacusbund.
I secured a copy. Among the named speakers were Rosa Luxemburg, Liebknecht, Levi, Duncker.[1]
Arrived at the Gorlitzer Station, we found that there would be no train till evening, and at our guide’s suggestion we three drank chocolate—at five marks for three cups, including a 50-pfennig tip to the waiter—and listened to the melancholy music in the great café which used to be called the “Piccadilly,” but which at the outbreak of the war was renamed “Das Vaterland.”
Returning to the station, we decided that our friend had best make purchase of the tickets, to prevent possible conflict.
While we waited there leapt upon us an aggressive young woman.
“Are you English officers?” she demanded.
“We are,” said we.
“Thank God for that!” she cried. “I’m English too, though I’m married to a German; and I love my country better than I love my husband, and think I shall come home!”
As this presented a marital problem too profound for our plumbing, we made the pretext of our friend’s return with the tickets to beat a hasty retreat.
We arrived back in Beeskow about ten o’clock, rang the bell and demanded admittance as good and dutiful Gefangenen. The Posten opened the gate, and when he beheld us twain he very decidedly and indubitably closed a knowing eye!