"We want to get into Holland. We want to get there to-night." "You cannot. The frontier is closed." "But when can we go?" "When the war is over." "That is incredible." "It is not incredible. You must stop here. It is a nice place. If you wanted a large town, why did you not stop in Berlin?" "Because we want to leave Germany. No one knows where we are. Can we communicate with any one?" "All communication is impossible."
This was cheerful news, but we had no time in which to think it over. Lyra's trunk had been opened, and the examination had begun. Several young women had arrived on the scene, who proved excellent English scholars and most accomplished searchers. It was an education to watch their methods. Every garment was taken out, shaken, weighed in the hand, and held up to the light, then flung down carelessly. Pretty chiffons and fluffy dresses lay about on the dusty road; but no one cared. It was a sorry performance, and an unworthy one. Letters and papers were pounced on and read, and it was a revelation to realize how the most innocent wires and cables could be construed into having some subtle political significance. Finally the last garment was removed, and the trunk itself subjected to severe critical examination.
By this time it was very late, and the hearts of our captors melted a little. We were told we might proceed (under arrest, of course) to the hotel, and that the remainder of the luggage would be examined there privately.
Once more we took our seats in the car, but the drive can hardly be described as a triumphal progress. Soldiers walked in front, and soldiers walked at the side, till we arrived at the Hotel of the Angel—of all ironical names! Six women, including the searchers, joined us, and were very pleasant and kindly while our hand luggage was being examined sufficiently for us to get out some things for the night. They had a beautiful time, reading all the letters that lay scattered about in our belongings, and taking the keenest interest in all our possessions. Poor souls! They certainly needed a little diversion. One girl had said good-by to her fiancé that morning, and another was a bride of twenty-four hours. She had married in haste to take the name of the man she loved before he went off to the frontier!
We were allowed to choose our bedrooms, and Kitty and I elected to share one big one. Then we were told that we must be undressed and searched, so one by one we were taken off by two damsels, who were soon able to declare that we were not concealing anything criminal about us.
The big man whose pockets had swallowed up our pass and tickets again appeared upon the scene, and proved to be the burgomaster of the town. He interviewed Lyra in one room—questioning and cross-questioning—and then he came to me. His suspicions seemed to be allaying, and his attitude was almost paternal. Although we had no passports, we were able to prove our identification very successfully—the girls by papers and letters, and I luckily had in my possession my permit to visit all the Italian galleries, with my photo pasted on to it. This proved me to be Conway Evans, living in Florence; but while the examination was going on, I wondered how long it would be before the question of my nationality would crop up.
"Where is your husband?" "Florence, Italy." "Where do your father and mother live?" "Lausanne, Switzerland." "Where is your son?" "With my father and mother." "Where were you born?" "Georgetown, Demerara, South America."
I have always loved my colonial birthplace and suffered gladly the epithet of "Mudhead," but I don't suppose I ever experienced the same relief from it as when I realized that the worthy burgomaster's geography did not locate it amongst the British possessions, and that he was willing to swallow me whole as an American if I could deny my Russian nationality!
We were certainly very kindly treated. A supper of eggs and milk was prepared for us. While we were eating, the German girls sat with us and we got quite friendly. Bit by bit little things pieced themselves together like the pattern of a jig-saw puzzle. Our arrival at Gronau was no unforeseen event. We had been expected,—waited for,—and the fifteen men who had stood across the road to bar our progress had their fifteen guns ready to shoot if our stop had not been instanter. Information had been sent from Hannover that we were suspects. Who sent it we are never likely to know—the obsequious hotel proprietor, the owner of the blue eyes, the smiling boy officer, or the insolent waiter. No matter, we were suspects, and the worst conclusions were drawn when we arrived in a car without lights, and when I emerged into the flaring ring of light in a rose-red coat—a Russian colour, pregnant with criminality!! Had we realized our true position when that sudden halt was made, how frightened we should have been! As it was, it never occurred to us that we were in actual danger.
At about one in the morning we went to bed, and dropped asleep from sheer fatigue. At about four Kitty and I woke up and discussed the situation dispassionately. We got out of our beds and looked out of the windows. Rain was falling in sheets, and the world seemed a cold, cheerless, uninviting place. The soldiers guarding us paced up and down, up and down, in the wet. Vitality is low at 4 a.m., and we were as dejected as any two mortals could be.