He spoke now, but whether for my information or encouragement I know not.
“England,” said he, “hat gewonnen—Deutschland hat verloren!”
I turned to look at him; he was but nine or ten, yet his voice sounded so forlornly that to me, standing in this street of gathering dusk and down-trodden snow, there came a sense of the awful tragedy of defeat!
A Soldiers’ Ball
I cannot dance, but there is always a portion of the ball, at least, to the beholder. Captain Sugrue and I had looked into the Gasthaus at the Railway Crossing. It was an animated scene which met our eyes. The saloon was decorated with flags and festoons of red roses, while about eighty couples, composed of German soldiers and their sweethearts—these last with countenances of a colour to match the decorations—danced on almost without cessation. Certainly there were intervals, but these were of the shortest duration. The cavaliers would approach, possibly with a short bow; more frequently the overture was merely a smart tap upon the shoulder, and they were off. A little orchestra of piano, violins and ’cello, was housed on a little stage, upon which at one time there mounted the Master of the Ceremonies to announce the finding of a lady’s girdle.
Captain Sugrue and I also made various excursions afoot to townships within a radius of ten or twelve miles from Beeskow. One of these expeditions took us to the little village of Radinkendorf, where, after some research, we found a very modest little Gasthof, where an old woman undertook to supply us with coffee.
Whilst we waited, and she worked her coffee-mill, she invited us in motherly fashion into an inner room for warmth. Presently the coffee was prepared, and while we sipped it, “Where do you live?” inquired the aged woman.
“Zu Beeskow,” I replied. “We are prisoners.”
“Ah, das macht nichts,” said the dame kindly. “Das macht nichts. We are all human. Warum ist der Krieg?” distressfully, and touching her forehead with her finger as if in despair of a solution. “Why is the war? Why? Why?”