In the Prison City, Brussels, 1914-1918: A Personal Narrative

by J. H. Twells

Even at the darkest times I have often heard persons of all classes express generous acknowledgment of the slightest evidence of justice on the part of the Government, and have been impressed, when wrongful acts were related, by their failing to omit the least redeeming detail they considered essential to truth.

By the time the second demand for copper was made, the people were too hopelessly miserable to express resentment even in private. Words had proven too futile, and active revolt would have been folly. But, unreviling as they were, and morally stunned by knowledge of their helplessness, they stored up their wrongs in their memories and aching hearts. At this period, too, the subtle German scheme for exciting the Flemish population against the Walloons, thus causing internal discord, had reached a critical point. The few Flemings who ignorantly allowed themselves to be bought or persuaded to help this plot, and so secure a commercial market in Belgium after the war, occasionally, at the enemy’s dictation, made demonstrations usually ending in riots. Thus among the people an enmity was stirred up, likely to prove more serious after the war.

When, after the second glorious check before Paris, the German forces were being driven back for the last time, the official attitude in Brussels became considerably milder. The miserable news-sheets allowed us wailed sycophantic appeals to the world’s “humanity” to stem the “deluge of blood” flowing from the flood-gates opened by Germany herself. And yet, at the same time, the controlling Powers left no means untried to excite civil war in Belgium. Side by side with these touching and flowery appeals to an outraged world, were long columns pointing out how the Flemish population had been wronged for generations; calling them to stand up for their rights; subtly suggesting how, with Germany at their back, they could be masters of the country! The brother of my dentist, a Fleming, was approached, and asked to head a certain association aiming at Flemish dominance. He was promised not only all the coal, potatoes, and other necessities he needed, but also that a hundred thousand francs would be deposited to his credit in a Dutch bank. To his honour, it may be added, he refused the offer with scorn, as did all those of intelligence whom the enemy tried to seduce.

With such shameful wrongs eating into their souls, these people were expected again to dismantle their homes, and help Germany to hold territory won by craft, while seeking an advantageous peace. No step back would the invaders take to spare millions of poor citizens driven daily from hearth and home. On the contrary, they hunted them forth like cattle, at the evacuation of each town, in order to loot their houses and shops. The sister of our cook and her husband were driven from Menin without being allowed time to safeguard their possessions. Scarcely had they issued from their abode, where, after years of effort, they had established a small business in clocks and jewellery, when a German van appeared at their door, and, in their very sight, carried away over five thousand francs-worth of hard-earned stock. The couple, with hundreds of others, were herded into a cattle-car so closely that they were obliged to stand, pressed one against another. They were carried on to a town near Ghent, and thence made to walk for four hours, in the night, and without food; crowded into another cattle-car, and distributed, destitute, over the country to subsist, as best they could, on the charity of others.

One Belgian told me the following story without a quiver of voice or other show of feeling, save that the pain of it drove the colour from his face. He possessed a château at Aerschot and, having married during the war, was allowed to return to it with his bride during the second summer. He found the place greatly altered, for it had been occupied by German troops, and much damage had been done, especially in the park, where trees planted by his grandfathers had been ruthlessly felled. But sadder than all, he said, was the fact that many familiar faces had disappeared from the adjacent village. On making inquiries, he learned that all those missing had been shot as innocent examples in order to impress others with terror of German “frightfulness.” Though told this by the remaining villagers he could hardly believe it; for among the absent were old men, a priest, and one young boy whose mother had since died of a broken heart.

But during the heat of summer he had a ghastly proof that the accounts were true. At a certain point near his park he noticed an appalling odour. After tracing it to a low mound, he had the place opened, and there discovered sixty of the absent villagers, shot, and buried in a heap, scarcely more than a foot under ground.

Another man told me as calmly of an incident that occurred near his country-seat, at the home of a farmer he knew. The farmer had a number of Prussian officers and soldiers billeted upon him in 1914 and, being both good-natured and prudent, he treated them well. When the day came for them to depart, the chief officers, three in number, bade him harness the one horse he still possessed, and drive them to Brussels. There they were to remain a day before rejoining their troops, which were to depart on foot that afternoon. The farmer’s wife and daughter, after serving the officers with breakfast, took leave of them amiably enough, and received their thanks for courteous treatment.

But on returning alone, at twilight of the same day, the farmer was surprised to see no smoke coming from his chimney, and still more astonished to find the doors wide open and bits of broken crockery strewn about the courtyard. Before taking his horse to the stable, he cried loudly for his wife, and receiving no answer, ran into the house, which he found deserted. Neither wife nor daughter were there to welcome him, and the kitchen presented a scene of strange disorder, as though wild beasts had been in battle there. Broken dishes lay on the floor, empty wine bottles and tumblers stood on the table, and one lay under it in the midst of a dark, dry stain of wine. To make a long story short, the farmer rushed in terror to the village and there found his assistant surrounded by a group of terrified townsfolk, discussing the tragedy.