AFTER the battle of the Marne, the incredible outcome of which we only learned days later through secret outside sources, the spirit of Brussels revived a little, and the people’s wonderful, almost unreasoning, confidence became stronger than even before the occupation. Gradually the city began to assume a more normal aspect; certain cafés reopened and many shops, also street trams were run at unsatisfactory intervals. But existence was constantly haunted by the knowledge that every act and look was watched by the ubiquitous spy in civil dress eagerly seeking an excuse to drag a citizen to the Kommandantur. No one dared speak aloud of topics uppermost in the minds of all, or betray in public by so much as a glance his knowledge of that great victory which the Germans endeavoured to conceal. The city walls became more universally papered with affiches curtailing liberty, or announcing penalties inflicted upon well-known citizens. “A la peine de mort,” in enormous lettering that could be read several yards away, frequently attracted crowds to read the names of friends or prominent men condemned to death for such faults as later on, when Germany was less confident of becoming the world’s master, were punished by clement terms of imprisonment.
As neutrals, we were not personally troubled in this respect; but several of our friends were inexplicably arrested and sent to confinement either in Germany or Belgium. The cause of these arrests in many cases was never known, even by those who suffered them, only to be liberated after a term of months or years of cruel confinement in cells. In other instances the cause for arrest was given out with the usual non-appreciation of right—as in the case of Count de ——, a well-known banker of Dinant, who was shot because he declined to yield the savings of working-class Belgians when the contents of his safes were demanded. Three other prominent men were dragged off to Germany, merely because they had raised a fund for some starving labourers, who, having refused to work for the Germans, had no means of support. Numerous incidents of inconceivable brutality, though of character now too commonly known to bear repetition, were related to me by those who endured these punishments. Such was the experience of a Belgian, the Mayor of Haux, who told us verbally how he had been chained to a mitrailleuse and made to go forward before the German troops facing an Allied attack.
In regard to the Teutonic hatred for everything English, the following ridiculous instance will show to what extremes German tactlessness attempted to carry its usurped authority. One day a number of Alimentation-Commission men, all Americans, were seated together in a café; and, as all mention of the war was, by their own decision, prohibited, were jovially recounting reminiscences of happier times. Not far from them sat five young officers stiffly upright in gilt-buttoned parade dress and high red collars. They constantly turned their sheared heads to cast severe glances at the merry group who, though noting the angry eyes flashing under pale, knitted brows, paid no attention. Even then, although the Marne had checked their confident and boastful progress, all members of Germany’s army, however young or inexperienced in action, assumed the bombastic manner of world-conquering Napoleons and, as in this case, considered themselves endowed with right to suppress anyone whose behaviour displeased them. Under the very evident irritation of these five fresh products from the great central war-factory, the Americans’ hilarity grew apace; but on account of the Commission they represented, care was taken to avoid the least offensive word or gesture that might excuse interference. Presently one of the Prussians arose—a fat, pale youth, whose bright blue jacket and trousers appeared likely to burst if he took a long breath—and swaggered toward them with important jangle of sword and spurs.
“You shall not speak English where officers of the German army are seated!” he ejaculated, through lips pale and quivering with rage.
“Indeed? Why not?” inquired one of the party, an athletic creature who could have pounded the little fatty to a pulp.
“Because I say it!” was the reply; “the English language is distasteful to us, and should be officially forbidden in Brussels.”
“But it isn’t!” retorted the other in Americanized German; “and I guess Uncle Sam would have something to say if you tried to stop us speaking our own language.”
“You are all Americans?” demanded the Prussian, raising his tow-coloured head, like a proud bantam-cock, and taking them in with a supercilious glance.
No one replied, for the youth who first spoke to him had turned nonchalantly to continue his interrupted conversation with a companion.