The disdain of a short time ago is transformed into admiration, which they can scarcely contain. Then the workman disappears. But like the good Boche that he is, he goes at once to the manager of the sawmills and tells him that men, highly placed in the commercial world and in the university world are working at his mill incognito.
The manager, who is a simple fellow,—he is a self-made man, and curiosity is not the least of his faults,—comes hurrying to us immediately. We are just getting up to go back to our work, but he signs to us to remain seated. He is a nervous little man, with a face like a weasel; his restless, mobile physiognomy is lighted up by two piercing grey eyes. On his head is a bowler hat covered with sawdust. He wears an old coat much frayed and darned all over, the pockets are bulging with notebooks. The end of a folding measure sticks out from his trousers pocket. Gaily, without preamble, he begins by pitying the prisoners for the fatigue they must feel in doing manual work to which they are not accustomed. With the perspicacity, delicacy and tact of a sergent de ville making an inquiry, he asks us if it is really true that we are all “Unteroffizieren,” and then with a tear in his eye he speaks of his son who is also a N.C.O. and who has not come back. It gives him pleasure to talk of the missing man to “his colleagues.” He is proud of it. He holds forth and soon tells us about his troubles, his moral torments, his business trials, the scarcity of men, the terrible price of food, etc. etc.
When he has given vent to his feelings his curiosity gains the upper hand. He questions us and does not disguise his admiration and his astonishment. “Kaufmann! Ach! So. Buchhändler! Schön! Oberlehrer! Professor!” Here he is a little puzzled. He looks in vain for the spectacles that tradition has fixed on the noses of the learned. In order to convince him, one of us declares that this ornament, this symbol of learning, was left on the battlefield where our “Herr Professor” was wounded and captured. A half-timid respect takes hold of this simple man, for whom titles mean so much. Very soon he will thank us for having condescended to honour his sawmill with our august presence. His admiration is greater than his love of gain, and he begs us not to overtire ourselves. We must not work more than is enough to distract us by a little healthy exercise, we must take care of ourselves. Then the conversation turns naturally on general politics and the war. The manager is thunderstruck by the splendid confidence which the Frenchmen profess, and who—the Gazette de Cologne in their hand—nevertheless certify that the victory is on the side of the Allies, and who prove it too in a clear, peremptory and conclusive manner. The poor old man’s confidence begins to be shaken. Should he doubt his Kaiser! Potius mori!
After having offered a cigar to each of us, he makes us promise to come back the next day, and goes away proud that the French N.C.O.’s have deigned to discuss things with him, a poor “Holtzhändler.”
Four o’clock. A break allowed of a quarter of an hour.
A young workman came and hid a little osier basket, covered with a white napkin, behind some tree trunks. After having placed it carefully in the shade he went away without saying a word. Then the sentinel tells us that the contents are for us, that it is bread and butter that the manager sends us. (The gods are kind!) He, it seems, was much impressed by our gentlemanly manners and wished to allow us some small privilege. But we are warned to show discretion, and not to let any one know we have been the object of special attention. If the authorities should learn that he had favoured the prisoners there would be trouble, and they would withdraw his gang of workers.
Hidden from curious eyes, we sat and ate our “Butterbrod” and drank our “Flaschebier,” that beer of which the prisoners were, by Draconian decrees, deprived from the first day of their captivity. At the bottom of the basket we found packets of cigarettes.
The Boche had treated us well!
However, we could not say that kindness was his only motive, for we knew with what harshness he treated our comrades.
This German had simply forgotten for a moment that we were enemies and prisoners. He only saw that we were superior to him in position and education, and it was with the customary subordination of the Teuton that he felt obliged to observe the laws of hospitality.