They prod the map with the tips of their ill-manicured fingers. They gesticulate. They rage. “Sie lügen, sie lügen,” they cry again.
“Luxemburg is written up on the wall in our little village street,” I cry, trembling. So it is, but I forget that there is a Belgian Luxemburg too.
“She is undoubtedly a spy,” says the fiercer of the two, twisting on his heels and peremptorily addressing the Bourgmestre. His colleague echoes sternly, “Undoubtedly a spy.” A look I do not like creeps into the Bourgmestre’s eyes. The prison walls seem closing in on me. I see myself already blindfolded, led out. I make one last effort.
“In England ladies do not spy,” I say.
My enemies glare at me with looks of such bitter cold contempt that something seems to give way in my poor little overwrought brain. I seize a handful of my papers, crumple them up and fling them full in the face of my tormentor-in-chief. “England über alles,” I cry in a voice that surprises myself. Then I sit down abruptly and listen to the stertorous conversation which ensues between my foes. I single out the word “gefangene” (prisoner) and gather that while the inquisitors counsel my instant annihilation, the Bourgmestre has other plans in view. I stagger to my feet. In a glass opposite I scarcely recognise myself. I am white-lipped, haggard. There are great blue lines under my eyes. I look the personification of guilt. Suddenly the two men are in the corridor. I hear the Bourgmestre assuring them he will take me under custody to Cologne and deliver me up as a prisoner of war to the authorities. The door is closed, the key turned in the lock. I am alone....
The Bourgmestre returns and bids me follow him. I meekly obey. Presently I am having coffee at a table with his wife and a lady who speaks a little English. My heart sinks again. It seems like a ruse. They bombard me with questions. How impossible to explain a bachelor woman’s point of view to the average German haus-frau!
The Bourgmestre turns briskly to his wife. “You have not looked under her hat,” he says severely. I suddenly remember my diary and talk on at random. I must think. I must gain time. My only chance is to feign illness. I push away my cup and sink back in my chair. I am already white.
“It’s nothing,” I blurt out as the Bourgmestre starts up. “Give me a few minutes in my room.”
I stagger to the door, across the passage, into the little back bed-chamber. The door is closed, the key grates in the lock. I remove my hat, take down my hair and throw my diary in the jug of water. Having pulped it well, I tear it quickly into small pieces. These I hastily cram into my mouth and masticate and swallow as best I may. The pulpy mixture has a horrible flavour, but it goes down—that is the main point. I twist up my hair again and put on my hat. None too soon, for the door opens and the Bourgmestre’s wife and her friend appear.
“Take off your hat,” they say.