My Three Years in a German Prison

by Henri Béland

With much difficulty we managed to smuggle into the jail a copy of the London Daily Telegraph twice a week, in spite of an interdiction of all English and French newspapers. Needless to say, the Telegraph was circulated amongst all the British prisoners, and after each and every one of us had read it, the operation was crowned as a great joke against Officer Block himself.

By the aid of the aforesaid key, then, the door of the office would be opened during the breakfast hour while the officer was away, or during the closing hours of the day after he had left the jail, and the forbidden Daily Telegraph placed on his desk.

The second time this was done the officer became very angry and placed a non-commissioned officer at his door during his absence. This created a little difficulty, but our friends were not to be rebuffed by such a small matter.

As I tried to explain in a previous chapter, the section of the jail we occupied was triangular in shape. At seven o’clock in the evening a non-commissioned officer started to close the doors. He would first close the doors on one side of the triangle, and after doubling the angle he would start the operation on the second side. It was at this moment that one of the prisoners, occupying a cell on the third side, still open, would come surreptitiously with the famous key, open the door of one of the locked cells, and at the same time give the key to the occupant of the cell. He would then return hastily to his own cell. This was done, of course, very quickly and without being seen by the non-commissioned officer, who continued closing and locking the cells on the third side of the triangle, and then, under the impression that every prisoner was locked up, he would leave the jail.

In the course of the evening, or a little later, the British prisoner having a copy of the Daily Telegraph would, with the aid of the key, enter the office at the end of the corridor and succeed in putting the newspaper on the desk of the officer. He would return to his cell and his door would remain unlocked all night. On the following morning the non-commissioned officer would start to unlock the doors, invariably retracing the steps he had taken the previous evening. The same prisoner, coming out from his cell in the morning, would hurry across the side of the triangle still closed and would be handed the key from the one who had performed the overnight operation; would turn the key in the lock, and return to his own cell. When the non-commissioned officer reached the last side of the triangle he would find all the doors locked.

This stratagem was repeated for about ten days and amused all the prisoners in the Stadtvogtei more than I can describe. The officer took every means imaginable to catch the culprit, but, happily, he never succeeded. Finally, when he decided to place a sentry at the door of his office throughout the night, the owner of the key was forced to abandon his practical joking.

Turkey was handsomely represented at the Stadtvogtei during a couple of years; the Turk prisoners were one Raschid and the other Tager.

Raschid was a young man, about thirty-five years of age. He was lodged in a cell on the floor above ours and there kept in solitary confinement. He was arrested while passing through Germany, because he, too, openly manifested his sympathies for France. Like Tager, his compatriot, he had received a French education, and had lived in Paris for several years. This poor Raschid, who was locked up all day long, was not allowed to read or smoke, but several among us when apprised of his hard lot succeeded from time to time in providing him with some French books, cigarets and also with a little food. Professor Henri Marteau, the celebrated French violinist, was particularly moved by the misfortunes of Raschid. He was allowed to play the instrument in his cell, which during the latter part of his captivity was situated on the side of the triangle facing the cell in which Raschid was confined. And there he would draw from his violin marvelous strains that would send a ray of comfort to the poor Turk’s soul.

One night I was called to Raschid’s cell. He was very ill. And while we talked together I obtained a great deal of information from him. The conversation, being in French, was not understood by the attendant non-commissioned officer.