For instance, to read Vorwaerts in public in Berlin is an action which requires a certain amount of heroism. The newspaper which in the last two months has been suppressed three times by the Censor, and three times allowed to appear again on the promise of good behaviour, is almost the only one which shows any independence of the military Press office, and dares to tell news other than optimistic to the Berlin public.
Wishing to read something fairly truthful about the war, I was scanning this newspaper while riding in a tramcar on my way to the War Fund garden party, which was, at the moment, the great attraction of all Berlin.
An elderly gentleman, sitting opposite me, after looking suspiciously for a long while at the paper and at myself, addressed me with this extraordinary remark: "To be a Socialist at the present moment is to be an enemy of the Fatherland. You should be ashamed to read a paper like that when you should be fighting for the country."
I answered that I read what I liked best and that he need not worry—I would gladly fight for my country as soon as she was at war. When the old man heard I was an Italian he commenced, tactless as only a German can be when he is of the tactless sort, a long talk about the treacherous politics of Italy, the punishment Germany is going to give her, and other similar nonsense.
I got out of the car to avoid a useless dispute, and entered the large courtyard of a sumptuous private residence in which the garden party was being held.
All that Berlin has left in the way of Society was there, chic little ladies dressed in the French style, drinking Russian tea, lounging about or sitting at small tables in true English fashion. Without a doubt, this is the ideal setting for a garden party in favour of the German War Fund!
A smart young girl came towards me and put a small silk flag in my buttonhole—a German flag, of course; I had to give her a ten-marks note for it, as other people at my side had just done.
Of all the little sins I had to commit to carry out successfully my Berlin trip, indispensable white lies, and misleading silences, the one which I have the most on my conscience is certainly the contribution of ten marks to the German War Fund!
Through a wide arch we passed from the courtyard into a fairly large garden, in which different tents had been erected for the sale of flowers, small china pieces, and all the other useless, ugly little things one is prepared to buy at a charity bazaar. The picture postcard stall specially attracted my attention, as most of the cards referred to the war. I got a large selection of masterpieces of bad taste, cheap symbolism, and antediluvian humour.
I carefully kept far from the buvette in which the Princess of Thurn and Taxis was selling by auction glasses of Moselle wine at fantastic prices. One of the officers in my company the previous night bumped into me while trying to escape from a persistent flower girl.