Round about Bar-le-Duc

by Susanne R. Day

Another aviator, similarly caught, was also shot, though both, by every rule of the game, should have been treated as prisoners of war.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, c'est un vrai calvaire qu'on souffre là bas," cried Madame Breda, tears standing thick in her eyes; and thinking of other repatriées whom I had met and whose stories burned in the memory I knew that she spoke only the truth. For là-bas is prison. It is home robbed of all its sacredness, its beauty, its joy, its privacy; it is life without freedom, and under the shadow of a great fear. Shall I tell you of those other repatriées? I promised to spare you atrocities, but there is a martyrdom which should call forth all our sympathy and all our indignation, and they, poor souls, have endured it.

II

Madame Ballay is a young, slight, dark-eyed woman, wife of a railway employee, into whose room I stumbled accidentally one day when looking for some one else, an "accident" which happened so frequently in Bar we took it as a matter of course. No matter how unceremonious our entry, our reception was invariably the same, and almost invariably had the same ending—that of a new name inscribed upon our books, a fresh recipient gratefully acknowledging much-needed help. Almost invariably, but not quite. Once at least the ending was not routine. A dark landing, several doors. I knock tentatively at one, a voice shouts Entrez, and I fling open the door to see—well, to see a blue uniform lying on the floor and a large individual rubbing himself vigorously with a towel. "Pardon, Madame!" he exclaimed, pausing in his towelling. He was not in the least nonplussed, but for my part, not having come to France to study the nude, I fled—fled precipitately and nearly fatally, for the stairs were as dark as the landing, and my eyes were still filled with the wonder of the vision. And though many months have gone by, I am still at a loss to know why he told me to come in!

But nothing will ever teach me discretion, and so I still knock at wrong doors, though not always with such disastrous results, and often with excellent ones, as it has enabled us to help people who would have been too shy or too proud to knock at our door and ask to be inscribed upon our books.

When the war broke out the Ballays, whose home was down Belmont way, were living in Longuyon, where Monsieur had been sent some two years before. They had very few friends, so when the mobilisation order came, when from every church steeple rang out the clear, vibrant, emotion-laden call to arms, Madame was left alone and unprotected with her baby girl. There was no time to get away. The Germans surged over the frontier with incredible swiftness, and almost before the inhabitants knew that war had begun were in the streets. Then realisation came with awful rapidity, for Hell broke loose in the town. Shots rang out, wild screams of terror, oaths, shoutings, the rush of frightened feet, of heavy, brutal pursuit. Women's sobs throbbed upon the air, the wailing of children rose shrill and high; drunken ribald song, hammering upon doors, orders sharply given! Madame cowering in her kitchen saw ... heard.... She gathered her child into her arms. Where could they fly for safety? The door was broken open, a German, drunk, maddened, rushed in and seized her. Struggling, she screamed for help, and her screams attracted the attention of some men in a room below. They dashed up, and the soldier, alarmed, perhaps ashamed, slunk away. Snatching up the child, the unfortunate mother fled to the woods. There, with many other women and children, she wandered for two days and two nights. They had no food, nothing but one tin of condensed milk, which they managed to open and with which they coloured the water they gave the children. Starving, exhausted, unable to make her way down through France, she was compelled to return to the town, three-quarters of which, including the richer residential portions, had been wantonly fired. The few people she had known were gone, her own house destroyed. She wandered about the streets for five days and nights, penniless and starving, existing on scraps picked up in the gutter, sleeping in doorways, on the steps of the church. Then she stumbled upon a Belmont woman living in a street that had escaped destruction. The woman was kind to her, taking her in and giving her lodging, but unable to give her food, as she had not enough for herself.

Madame was nearly desperate when some German soldiers asked her to do their washing, paying her a few sous, with which she was able to buy food for herself and the child. But she was often hungry, there was never enough for two. The men were reservists, oldish and quiet, doing no harm and living decently. It was the first armies that were guilty of atrocities, and in Longuyon their score runs high. They behaved like madmen. Ninety civilians were wantonly shot in the streets, among them being some women and children. A woman, Madame said, took refuge in a cellar with several children—five, I think, in all; a soldier rushed in with levelled rifle. She flung herself in front of the little ones, but with an oath he fired, flung her body on one side and then killed the children. Soldiers leaning from a window shot a man as he walked down the street. They caught some civilians, told one he was innocent, another that he had fired on them, shot some, allowed others to go free; they quarrelled among themselves, they shot one another. Women, as a rule, they did not shoot. But the women paid—paid the heaviest price that can be demanded of them; nor did the presence of her children save one mother from shame. I have heard of these soldiers clambering to the roofs and crawling like evil beasts from skylight to skylight, peering down into dark attics and roof-rooms, searching for the shuddering victims who found no way of escape. And then, their rage and fury spent, they swept on, crying, "Paris kaput, À Paris, Calais, Londres. London kaput. In a fortnight" ... and the reservists marching in took their places.

For seven months Madame Ballay was unable to leave the town. She knew nothing of what was happening in France, heard no news of her husband, did not know whether he was dead or alive.

"But I was well off," she said, "because of the washing. There were women—oh, rich women, Mademoiselle, bien élevées—who slowly starved in the streets, homeless, houseless, living on scraps, on offal and refuse. Sometimes we spared them a little, but we had never enough for ourselves."