Heaven knows it takes little enough to interest an audience composed of prisoners of war. During the intervals between our concerts and pantomimes and dramatic performances the crowded camp was driven half crazy by fellows “practising” for the next entertainment on landings and in bedrooms, and all over the place. We knew every tune, and every mistake it was possible to make in singing it, long before the “first” (and usually only) “night.” And especially did we abhor to distraction the clog-dance practices. Yet, when the great day came, we enjoyed every turn, and shouted vociferous and most genuine applause. Everything was appreciated, from the scenery painted on old Turkish newspapers to the homemade instruments of the band. “As good as the Empire,” or “Drury Lane can’t beat that,” we would say.
The camp knew nothing of the long hours Hill and I had spent together asking and answering such innocent sounding code questions as, “Quickly! What have I here?” “Tell me what this is?” “Now, do you know what this article is?” and so on. It was something new for them to get an apparently unrehearsed show. The fact that the audience contained a number of converts to spiritualism assisted us greatly in obtaining the necessary atmosphere of credulous wonder. Hill walked through the audience, asking me (blind-folded on the platform and “in a semi-hypnotic state”) to name the various articles handed to him, to quote the numbers on banknotes, to read the time on watches, to identify persons touched. Our failures were few enough to be negligible—not more than half a dozen in all—and our successes were numerous, and sometimes (as when Slim Jim produced a stump of a candle from the “cag” in his pockets) startling. Naturally, in the end, we were “as good as the Zanzigs,” and so on. A few suspected a code, and said so, but were utterly in the dark as to how such a code could be arranged.[[12]] Others were simply bewildered. And still others, and among them none more ardently than the Pimple, professed themselves entirely satisfied that here at last was genuine telepathy and nothing less. We learned afterwards that the Pimple left the concert before its close to inform the Commandant of the supernatural marvels he had witnessed.
On the evening of the same day (February 2nd, 1918), the Pimple came round for his séance. He asked that it should be as private as possible. It was therefore arranged that only Mundey and Edmonds should be present in addition to myself and the Pimple. There was, of course, no mention of Hill.
The séance began in the usual manner. After a few questions and answers, the Pimple asked and obtained permission from the Spook to read out a written statement. It was as follows[[13]]—
“There is a treasure in the Schoolhouse. A man came from Damascus and related to an acquaintance of mine the following facts: (i) Before the Armenians were driven out of Yozgad the wife of the owner of this Schoolhouse with a little boy and one or two other relations went at night to the garden of the Schoolhouse and dug out a hole and buried about £18,000. He is not certain of the amount. There were jewels. A few days after, I think, they were all ‘sent away.’ (ii) This man, hearing this news, escaped from Damascus, where he was a soldier, came here, and told this to my acquaintance, but as he did not know exactly the place his information was of little value. (iii) If what this man says is true, will you kindly tell me the place? I make the following propositions to the three persons here to-night—
(a) I promise to give each of them 10% of all the money and valuables if they accept these propositions;
(b) Or I offer 30% as they choose, with certain restrictions as to the keeping of the money for the safety of all until the war ends.”
It was needless to ask why he applied to the Spook for information instead of to the woman who had buried the treasure. She was dead—long since—very probably tortured to death in a vain effort to get her to reveal the whereabouts of her wealth. For the late occupants of the Schoolhouse had been wealthy people, and after they were “sent away” (we all knew what that meant) nothing had been found. Behind the bald, cold-blooded statement which the Pimple read out there lay a great tragedy, the tragedy of the Armenians of Yozgad. The butchery had taken place in a valley some dozen miles outside the town. Amongst our sentries were men who had slain men, women, and children till their arms were too tired to strike. They boasted of it amongst themselves. And yet, in many ways, they were pleasant fellows enough.
The mentality of the Turk is truly surprising. Supposing I had the supernatural power which the Interpreter and Commandant thought I possessed, was it likely that I, presumably a Christian and avowedly an enemy, would be ready to help them to the property of fellow Christians whom the Turks had most foully murdered? Yet they had put the proposal to me without a hint of shame. Englishmen are often upbraided with their inability to understand the Oriental. But sometimes it is the Oriental who fails to understand the Englishman.
“I revoke all claim to a share in this treasure,” I said. “As a medium, I am not allowed to gain.”