And now I see people gathering round the Germans as they come to a halt at the end of the Avenue. I see people stroking the horses' heads, and old men and young men smiling and bowing, and a few minutes later, inside the restaurant of my hotel, I witness those extraordinary encounters between the Germans and their spies. I hear the clink of gold, and see the passing of big German notes, and I watch the flushed faces of Antwerp men who are holding note-books over the tables to the German officers, and drinking beer with them, to the accompaniment of loud riotous laughter. That is the note struck in the first hour of the German entrance; and that is the note all the time as far as the German-Anversois are concerned. Before very long I discover that there must have been hundreds of people hiding away inside those silent houses, waiting for the Germans to come in. The horror of it makes me feel physically ill.
The procession comes to a standstill at last in front of a little green square by the Athene, and next moment a group of grey-clad officers with roses in their tunics are hurrying towards the hotel, and begin parleying with Monsieur Claude, our proprietor.
I expected to see him icily resolute against receiving them. But to my surprise he seems affable. He smiles. He waves his hand as he talks. He is eager, deferential, and quite unmistakably friendly, friendly even to the point of fawning. Turning, he flings open his doors with a bow, and in a few minutes the Germans are crowding into his great restaurants.
Cries of "Bier" resounded on all sides.
Outside, on the walls of the Theatre Flamand, the Huns are at it already with their endless proclamations.
"EINWOHNER VON ANTWERPEN!"Das deutsche Heer betritt Euere Stadt alsSieger. Keinem Euerer Mitbürger wird ein Leidgeschehen und Euer Eigentum wird geschontwerden, wenn ihr Euch jeder Feindseligkeitenthaltet."Jede Widersetzlichkeit dagegen wird nachKriegsrecht bestraft und kann die ZerstörungEuerer schonen Stadt zur Folge haben."DER OBERBEFEHLSHABER DERDEUTSCHEN TRUPPEN.""INWONERS VAN ANTWERPEN!"Het Duitsche leger is als overwinnaar inuwe stad gekomen. Aan geen enkel uwermedeburgers zal eenig leed geschieden en uweeigendommen zullen ongeschonden blijven,wanneer gij u allen van vijandelijkhedenonthoudt."Elk verzet zal naar oorlogsrecht wordenbestraft en kan de vernietiging van uwe schoonestad voor gevolg hebben."DE HOOFDBEVELHEBBER DERDUITSCHE TROEPEN.""HABITANTS D'ANVERS!"L'armée allemande est entrée dans votreville en vainquer. Aucun de vos concitoyensne sera inquiété et vos propriétés seront respectéesà la condition que vous vous absteniez de toutehostilité."Toute résistance sera punie d'après les loisde la guerre, et peut entraîner la destruction devotre belle ville."LE COMMANDANT EN CHEF DESTROUPES CHEF ALLEMANDS."
At this point, I crept down stealthily into the kitchen and proceeded to disguise myself.
I put on first of all a big blue-and-red check apron. Then I pinned a black shawl over my shoulders. I parted my hair in the middle and twisted it into a little tight knot at the back, and I tied a blue-and-white handkerchief under my chin.
Looking thoroughly hideous I slipped back into the restaurant where I occupied myself with washing and drying glasses behind the counter.
It was a splendid point of observation, and no words can tell of the excitement I felt as I stooped over my work and took in every detail of what was going on in the restaurant.
But sometimes the glasses nearly fell from my fingers, so agonising were the sights I saw in that restaurant at Antwerp, on the afternoon of October 9th—the Fatal Friday.
I saw old men and young men crowding round the Germans. They sat at the tables with them drinking, laughing, and showing their note-books, which the Germans eagerly examined. The air resounded with their loud riotous talk. All shame was thrown aside now. For months these spies must have lived in terror as they carried on their nefarious espionage within the walls of Antwerp. But now their terror was over. The Germans were in possession. They had nothing to fear. So they drank deeply and more deeply still, trying to banish from their eyes that furtive look that marked them for the sneaks they were. Some of them were old greybeards, some of them were chic young men. I recognised several of them as people I had seen about in the streets of Antwerp during those past two months, and again and again burning tears gathered in my eyes as I realised how Antwerp had been betrayed.
As I am turning this terrible truth over in my mind I get another violent shock. I see three Englishmen standing in the middle of the now densely-crowded restaurant. At first I imagine they are prisoners, and a wave of sorrow flows over me. For I know those three men; they are the three English Marines who called in at this hotel yesterday; seeing that they were Englishmen by their uniforms I called to them to keep back a savage dog that was trying to get at the cockatoo that I had rescued from Lierre. They told me they were with the rest of the English Flying Corps at the forts. Their English had been perfect. Never for a minute had I suspected them!
And now, here they are still, in their English uniforms, and little black-peaked English caps, talking German with the Germans, and sitting at a little table, drinking, drinking, and laughing boisterously as only Germans can laugh when they hold their spying councils.
English Marines indeed!
They have stolen our uniforms somehow, and have probably betrayed many a secret. Within the next few hours I am forced to the conclusion that Antwerp is one great nest of German spies, and over and over again I recognised the faces of old men and young men whom I have seen passing as honest Antwerp citizens all these months.
Seated all by himself at a little table sits a Belgian General, who has been brought in prisoner.
In his sadness and dignity he makes an unforgettable picture. His black beard is sunk forward on his chest. His eyes are lowered. His whole being seem to be wrapt in a profound melancholy that yet has something magnificent and distinguished about it when compared with the riotous elation of his conquerors.
Nobody speaks to him. He speaks to nobody. With his dark blue cloak flung proudly across his shoulder he remains mute and motionless as a statue, his dark eyes staring into space. I wonder what his thoughts are as he sees before him, unashamed and unafraid now that German occupation has begun, these spies who have bartered their country for gold. But whatever he thinks, that lonely prisoner, he makes no sign. His dignity is inviolable. His dark bearded face has all the poignancy and beauty of Titian's "Ariosto" in the National Gallery in London.
He is a prisoner. Nobody looks at him. Nobody speaks to him. Nobody gives him anything to eat. Exhaustion is written on his face. At last I can bear it no longer. I pour out a cup of hot coffee, and take a sandwich from the counter. Then I slip across the Restaurant, and put the coffee and the sandwich on the little table in front of him. A look of flashing gratitude and surprise is in his dark sad eyes as they lift themselves for a moment. But I dare not linger. The Flemish maid, with the handkerchief across her head, hurries back to her tumblers.
Two little priests have been brought in as prisoners also.
But they chat cheerily with their captors, who look down upon them smilingly, showing their big white teeth in a way that I would not like if I were a prisoner!
None of the prisoners are handcuffed or surrounded. They do not seem to be watched. They are all left free. So free indeed, that it is difficult to realise the truth—one movement towards the door and they would be shot down like dogs!
In occupying a town without resistance the Germans make themselves as charming as possible. Obviously those are their orders from headquarters. And Germans always obey orders. Extraordinary indeed is the discipline that can turn the brutes of Louvain and Aerschot into the lamb-like beings that took possession of Antwerp. They asked for everything with marked courtesy, even gentleness. They paid for everything they got. I heard some of the poorer soldiers expressing their surprise at the price of the Antwerp beer.
"It's too dear!" they said.
But they paid the price for it all the same.
They always waited patiently until they could be served. They never grumbled. They never tried to rush the people who were serving them. In fact, their system was to give no trouble, and to create as good an impression as possible on the Belgians from the first moment of their entrance—the first moment being by far the most important psychologically, as the terrified brains of the populace are then most receptive to their impressions of the hated army, and anything that could be done to enhance and improve those impressions is more valuable then than at any other time.
Almost the first thing the Germans did was to find out the pianos.
It was not half an hour after they entered Antwerp when strains of music were heard, music that fell on the ear with a curious shock, for no one had played the piano here since the Belgian Government moved into the fortified town. They played beautifully, those Germans, and every now and then they burst into song. From the sitting-rooms in the Hotel I heard them singing to the "Blue Danube." And the "Wacht am Rhein" seemed to come and go at intervals, like a leitmotif to all their doings.
About four o'clock, Jeanette, the Flemish servant, whispered to me that Henri wanted to speak to me in the kitchen.
"A great misfortune has happened, Madame!" said Henri, agitatedly. "The Germans have seized my car. I shall not be able to take you out of Antwerp this afternoon. But courage! to-morrow I will find a cart or a fiacre. To-day it is impossible to do anything, there is not a vehicle of any kind to be had. But to-morrow, Madame, trust Henri; He will get you away, never fear!"
Half an hour after, the faithful fellow called to me again.
His pie-coloured face looked dark and miserable.
"The Germans have shut the gates all round the city and no one is allowed to go in and out without a German passport!" he said.
This was serious.
Relying on my experience in Brussels, I had anticipated being able to get away even more easily from Antwerp, because of Henri's motor car. But obviously for the moment I was checked.
As dusk fell and the lights were lit, I retired into the kitchen and busied myself cutting bread and butter, and still continuing my highly interesting observations. On the table lay piles of sausage, and presently in came two German officers, an old grey-bearded General, and a dashing young Uhlan Lieutenant.
"We want three eggs each," said the Uhlan roughly, addressing himself to me. "Three eggs, soft boiled, and some bread with butter, with much butter!"
I nodded but dared not answer.
And the red-faced young Lieutenant, thinking I did not understand, ground his heel angrily, and muttered "Gott!" when his eyes fell on the sausage, and his expression changed as if by magic.
"Wurst?" he ejaculated to the General. "Here there sausage is!"
It was quite funny to see the way these two gallant soldiers bent over the sausage, their eyes beaming with greedy joy, and in ten minutes every German was crying out for sausage, and the town was being ransacked in all directions in search of more.
The saddest thing in Antwerp is the howling of the dogs.
Thousands have been left shut in the houses when their owners fled, and all day and night these poor creatures utter piercing, desolate cries that grow louder and more piercing as time goes on.
It is Saturday morning, October 10th.
Strange things have happened.
When I went to my door just now, I found it locked from the outside.
I have tried the other door. That is locked, too.
What does it mean, I wonder?
Here I am in a little room about twelve feet by six, with one window looking on to the back wall of one of the Antwerp theatres.
I can hear the sounds of fierce cannonading going on in the distance, but the noise within the hotel close at hand is so loud as to deaden the sounds of battle; for the Germans are running up and down the corridors perpetually, shouting, singing, stamping, and the pianos are going, too.
Nobody comes near me. I knock at both the doors, but gently, for I am afraid to draw attention to myself. Nobody answers. The old woman and the two little children have left the room on my right, the old man has left the room on my left. I am all alone in this little den. I dress as well as I can, but the room is just a tiny sitting-room; there are no facilities for making one's toilette. I have to do without washing my face. Instead, I rub it with Crême Floreine, and the amount of black that comes off is appalling.
Then I lie down at full length on my mattress and wonder what is going to happen next.
Hour after hour goes by.
In a corner of the room I discover an English weekly history of the War, and lying there on my mattress I read many strange stories that seem somehow to mock a little at these real happenings.
Then voices just outside in the corridor reach me.
Out there two old Belgians are talking.
"Ce sont les Anglais qui ne veulent pas rendre les forts!" says one.
They are discussing the fighting which still goes on fiercely in the forts around the city.
My head aches! I am hungry; and those big guns are making what the Kaiser would call World Noises.
Strange thoughts come over me, attacking me, like Samson Agonistes' "deadly swarm of hornets armed."
In a terrific conflict it doesn't seem to matter much which side is victorious, all hatred of the conquerors dies away; in fact the conquerors themselves may seem like deliverers since peace comes in with their entrance.
And I am weak and weary enough at this moment to wishles Anglaiswould give it up, let the forts be rendered, and let the cannons cease.
Anything for peace, for an end of slaughter, an end of terror, an end of this cruel soul-racking thunder.
Terrible thoughts ... deadly thoughts.
Do they come to the soldiers, thoughts like these? Heaven help the poor fellows if they do!
They are more deadly than Death, for they attack only the immortal part of one, leaving the mortal to save itself while they blight and corrode the spirit.
I am weary. I have not slept for five nights, and I feel as if I shall never sleep again.
I daresay that's partly why I have been weak enough to wish for an end of noise.
It's five o'clock and darkness has set in.
Nobody has been near me, I'm still here, locked up in this little room.
I roam about like a caged animal. I look from the window. The blank back wall of the Antwerp Theatre meets my eye, but a corner of the hotel looks in also, and I can see three tiers of windows, so I hastily move away. In all those rooms there are Germans quartered now. What if they glanced down here and discoveredme? I pull the curtains over the window, and move back into the room.
This is Saturday afternoon, October 10th, and all of a sudden a queer thought comes over me.
October 10th is my birthday.
I lie down on the mattress again, and my thoughts begin dreamily to revolve round an extraordinary psychic mystery that I became conscious of when I was little more than a baby in far-away Australia.
I became conscious at the age of four that I heard in my imagination the sounds of cannon, and I became certain too that those cannon were going to be real cannon some day.
Yes! All my life, ever since I could think, I have heard heavy firing in my ears, and have known I was going to be very close to battle, some far-off day or other.
Have other people been born with the same belief, I wonder?
I should like so much to know.
Gradually a vast area of speculative psychology opens out before me, and, like one walking in a world of dreams, I lose myself in its dim distances, seeking for some light, clear opening, wherein I can discover the secret of this extraordinary psychic or physiological mystery, that has hidden itself for a lifetime in my being. I say hidden itself; yet, though it has kept itself dark and concealed, it has always been teasing my sub-consciousness with vague queer hints of its presence, until at last I have grown used to it, and have even arranged a fairly comfortable explanation of its existence between my soul and myself.
I have told myself that it is something I can never, never understand. And that it is all the explanation I have ever been able to give to myself of the presence of this uninvited guest who has dwelt for a lifetime in the secret-chambers of my intuitions, who has hidden there, veiled and mysterious, never shewing a simple feature to betray itself—eye, lips, brow—always remaining unseen, unknown, uninvited, unintelligible—yet always potent, always softly disturbing one's belief in one's ordinary everyday life with that dull roar of cannon which seemed to visualize in my brain with an image of blinding sunlight.
Lying there on the bare mattress, on this drear October day which goes down to history as the day on which Germany set up her Governor in Antwerp, I begin to wonder if my sublimable consciousness has been trying, all these years, to warn me that danger would come to me some day to the sound of battle. And am I in that danger now? Is this the moment perhaps that the secret, silent guest has tried to shew me lay lurking in await for me, ready to make me fulfil my destiny in some dark and terrible way?
No. I can't believe it.
I can't see it like that.
Idon'tbelieve that that is what the roar of cannon has been trying to say to me all my life.
I can't sense danger—I won't. No, I mean Ican't.My reason assures me there isn't any danger that is going tocatchme, no matter how it may threaten.
And then the hornet flies to the attack.
"It says, 'People who are haunted with premonitions nearly always disregard them until too late.'"
So occupied am I with these dreams and philosophings that I lie there in the darkness, forgetful of time and hunger, until I hear voices in the next room, and there is the old woman opening my door, and the two little yellow-haired children staring in at me curiously.
The old woman gives me some grapes out of a basket under her bed, and a glass of water.
"Pauvre enfant!" she says. "I am sorry I could bring you no food, but the Germans are up and down the stairs all day long, and I dare not risk them asking me, "Who is that for?"
"But why are you so afraid?" I ask. "Last night you were so nice to me. What has happened? Come, tell me the truth."
"Alors, Madame, I will tell you! You recollect that German who leaned over the counter for such a long time when you were washing glasses?"
"Yes." My lips felt suddenly dry as wood.
"Alors, Madame! He said to me, that fellow, 'Shenever speaks!'"
"Who did he mean?"
"Alors, Madame, he meant you!"
(This then, I think to myself, is what happens to one when one is really frightened. The lips turn dry as chips. And all because a German has noticed me. It is absurd.)
I force a smile.
"Perhaps you imagine this," I said.
"No, because he said to me to-day, 'Where is that mädchen who never spoke?'"
"What did you say?"
"She is deaf," I told him. "She does not hear when anyone speaks to her!"
"So that is why you locked me up."
"C'est ça, Madame. It was my brother who wished it. He is very afraid. And now, Madame, good-night. I must put the little girls to bed."
"Well, I think this is ridiculous," I said. "How long am I to stay here?"
She shook her head, and began to unfasten little fair-haired Maria's black serge frock, pushing her out of my room as she did so, with the evident intention of locking me in again.
But just then someone knocked at the outer door.
It was Madame X. who came stealing in, drawing the bolt noiselessly behind her. I looked in her weary face, with its white hair, and beautiful blue eyes, and saw gentleness and sympathy there, and sincerity.
She said: "Mon Mari has been talking in the restaurant with a friend of his, a Danish Doctor, a Red Cross Doctor, Madame, you understand, and oh, he is so sorry for you, Madame, and he thinks he can help you to escape! He wants to come up and see you for a moment. I advise you to see him."
"Will you bring him up," I said.
"Immediately!"
The old patronne went on undressing the little girls, getting them hurriedly into bed and telling them to be quiet.
They kept shouting out questions to me, and whenever they did so their grandmother would smack them.
"Silence.Les albocheswill hear you!"
But they were terribly naughty little girls.
Whenever I spoke they repeated my words in loud, mocking voices.
Their sharp little ears told them of my foreign accent, and they plucked at every strange note in my voice, and repeated it loud and shrill, but the grandmother smacked them into silence and pulled the bedclothes up over their faces.
Then a gentle tap, and Madame X. and the Danish Doctor came stealing in.
Ah! how piercing and pathetic was the look I cast on that tall stranger. I saw a young fair-haired man in grey clothes, with blue eyes, and an honest English look, quiet, kind, sincere, wearing the Red Cross badge on his arm! I looked and looked. Then I told myself he was to be trusted.
In English he said, "I heard there was an English lady here who wants to get away from Antwerp?"
I interrupted sharply.
"Please don't speak English! The Germans are always going up and down the corridor. They may hear!"
He smiled at my fears, but immediately changed into French to reassure me.
"No, no, Madame! You mustn't be alarmed. The Germans are too busy with themselves to think of anything else just now. And I want to help you. Your Queen Alexandra is a Dane. She is of my country, and she has kept the bonds very close and strong between Denmark and England. Yes, if only for the sake of Queen Alexandra I want to help you now. And I think I can do so. If you will pass as my sister I can get a pass for you from the Danish Consul, and that will enable you to leave Antwerp in safety."
"May I see your papers?" I asked him now. "I am sure you are sincere. But you understand that I would like to see your papers."
"Certainly!"
And he brought out his papers of nationality and I saw that he was undoubtedly a Dane, working under the Red Cross for the Belgians.
When I had examined his papers I let him examine mine.
"And now I must ask you one thing more," he said. "I must ask for your passport. I want to shew it to my Consul, in order to convince him that you are really of British nationality. Will you give me your passport? I am afraid that without it my Consul may object to do this thing for me."
That was an agonized moment. I had been told a hundred times by a hundred different people that the one thing one should never do, never, never, never, not under any circumstances, was to part with one's passport. And here was this gentle Dane pleading for mine, promising me escape if I would give it. I looked up at him as he stood there, tall and grave. I was notquitesure of him. And why? Because he had spoken English and I still thought that was a dangerous thing to do. No, I was not quite sure. I stood there breathless, stupefied, trying to think. Madame X. watched me in silence. I knew that I must make up my mind one way or the other.
"Well, I shall trust you," I said slowly. I put my passport into his hands.
His face lit up and I, watching in that agony of doubt, told myself suddenly that he was genuine, that was real gladness in his eyes.
"Ah, Madame, Idothank you so for trusting me!" His voice was moved and vibrant. He bent and kissed my hand. Then he put the passport in his pocket. "To-morrow at three o'clock I will come here for you. Trust me absolutely. I will arrange for a peasant's cart or a fiacre, and I will myself accompany you to the Dutch borders. Have courage—you will soon be in safety!"
Ten minutes after he had gone Monsieur Claude burst into the room.
His face was black as night and working with rage.
"What is this you have done?" he cried in a hoarse voice. "Il parle avec les allemands dans le restaurant!"
Horrible words!
It seems to me that as long as I live I shall hear them in my ears.
"It is not true." I cried. "Itcan'tbe true." "He is talking to the Germans in the Restaurant," he repeated. His rage was undisguised. He flung on the table a little packet of English papers that I had given him to hide for me. "Take these! I have nothing to do with you. You are my sister's affair, I have nothing to do with you at all!"
I rushed to him. I seized him by the arm. But he flung me off and left the room. In and out of my brain his words went beating, in and out, in and out. The thing was simple, clear. The Dane had gone down to betray me, and he had all the evidence in his hands. Oh, fool that I had been! I had brought this on myself. It was my own unaccountable folly that had led me into this trap. At any moment now the Germans would come for me. All was over. I was lost. They had my passport in their possession. I could deny nothing. The game was up.
I got up and looked at myself in the glass.
The habit of a lifetime asserted itself, for all women look at themselves in the glass frequently, and at unexpected times. I saw a strange white face gazing at me in the mirror. "It is all up with you now! Are you ready for the end? Prepare yourself, get your nerves in order. You cannot hope to escape, it is either imprisonment or death for you! What do you think of that?" And then, at that point, kindly Mother Nature took possession of the situation and sleep rushed upon me unawares. I fell on the mattress and knew no more, till a soft knocking at my door awoke me, and I saw it was morning. A light was filtering in dimly through the window blind.
I jumped up.
I was fully dressed, having fallen asleep in my clothes.
"Madame!" whispered a voice. "Open the door toute suite n'est-ce-pas." It was the old woman's voice.
I pulled away the barricading chair, and let her in.
Over her shoulder I saw a man.
It was no German, this!
It was dear pie-coloured Henri in a grey suit with a white-and-black handkerchief swathed round his neck.
Behind him were the two little girls.
"Quick, quick!" breathes the old woman, "you must go, Madame, you must go at once! My brother is frightened; he refuses to have you here any longer. He is terrified out of his life lest the Germans should discover that he has been allowing an English woman to hide in his house!"
She threw an apron on me, and hurriedly tied it behind me, then she brought out a big black shawl and flung it round my shoulders. Then she picked up the blue-and-white check handkerchief lying on the table, and nodded to me to tie it over my head.
"You must go at once, you must leave everything behind you. You must not take anything. We will see about your things afterwards. You must pass as Henri's wife. There! Take his arm! And you, Henri, take one of the little girls by the hand! And you, Madame, you take the other. There! Courage, Madame. Oh, my poor child, I am sorry for you!"
She kissed me, and pushed me out at the same time.
Next moment, hanging on to Henri's arm, I found myself outside in the corridor walking towards the staircase.
"Courage!" whispered Henri in my ear.
Suddenly I ceased to be myself; I became a peasant; I was Henri's wife. These little girls were mine. I leaned on Henri, I clutched my little girl's fingers close. I felt utterly unafraid. I thought as a peasant. I absolutely precipitated myself into the woman I was supposed to be. And in that new condition of personality I walked down the wide staircase with my husband and my children, passing dozens of German officers who were running up and down the stairs continually.
I got a touch of their system. They moved aside to let us pass, the poor little pie-coloured peasant, his anxious wife, the two solemn children with flowing hair.
The hall below was crowded with Germans. I saw their fair florid faces, their grim lips and blazing eyes. But I was a peasant now, a little Belgian peasant. Reality had left me completely. Fear was fled. The sight of the sunlight and the touch of the fresh air on my face as we reached the street set all my nerves acting again in their old satisfactory manner.
"Courage, Madame!" whispered Henri.
"Don't call me Madame! Call me Louisa!" I whispered back. "Where are we going?"
"To a friend."
We turned the corner and crossed the street and I saw at once that Antwerp as Antwerp has entirely ceased to exist. Everywhere there were Germans. They were seated in the cafés, flying past in motor cars, driving through the streets and avenues just as in Brussels, looking as if they had lived there for ever.
"Voici, Madame!" muttered Henri.
"Louisa!" I whispered supplicatingly.
We entered a café. I shrank and clutched his arm. The place was full of Germans, but they were common soldiers these, not Officers. They were drinking beer and coffee at the little tables.
"Take no notice of them!" whispered Henri. "You are all right! Trust me!"
We walked through the Restaurant, Henri and I arm in arm, and the little girls clinging to our hands.
They really played their parts amazingly, those little girls.
"I have found my wife from Brussels," announced Henri in a loud voice to the old proprietor behind the counter.
"How are things in Brussels, Madame?" queried an old Belgian in the café.
But I made no answer.
I affected not to hear.
I went with Henri on through the little hall at the far end of the café.
Next moment I found myself in a big, clean kitchen. And a tall stout woman, her black eyes swimming in tears, was leaning towards me, her arms open.
"Oh, poor Madame!" she said.
She clasped me to her breast.
Between her tears, in her choking voice she whispered, "I told Henri to bring you here. You are safe with me. We are from Luxemburg. We fled from home at the beginning of the war rather than see our state swarming with Prussians, as it is now. We Luxemburgers hate Germans with a hate that passes all other hate on earth. And I have three children, who are all in England now. I sent them there a week ago. I sold my jewels, my all to let them go. I know my children are safe in England. And you, Madame, you are safe with me!"
"Don't call me Madame, call me Louisa."
"And call me Ada," she said.
"So, au revoir!" said Henri. "I shall come round later with your things."
He seized the little girls, and with a nod and "Courage, Louisa," he disappeared.
Oh, the kindness of that broken-hearted Luxemburg woman.
Her poor heart was bleeding for her children, and she kept on weeping, and asking me a thousand questions about England, while she made coffee for me, and spread a white cloth over the kitchen table. What would happen to her little ones? Would the English be kind to them? Would they be safe in England? And over and over again she repeated the same sad little story of how she had sent them away, her three beloveds, George, Clare, and little Ada with the long fair curls; sent them away out of danger, and had never heard a word from them since the day she kissed them and bade them good-bye at the crowded train.
The whole of that day I remained in the kitchen there at the back of the café I could hear the Germans coming in and out. They were blowing their own trumpets all the time, telling always of their victories.
Ada's little old husband would walk up and down, whistling the cheeriest pipe of a whistle I have ever heard. It did me good to listen to him. It brought before one in the midst of all this terror and ruin an image of birds.
At six o'clock that day, when dusk began to gather, Ada shut up the café, put out the lights, and she and her old husband and I sat together in the kitchen round the fire.
Presently, in came Henri, with my little bag, accompanied by Madame X., and her big husband, and two enormous yellow dogs.
They told me that the Danish Doctor came back at three o'clock, asked for me, and was told I had gone to Holland.
"If it were not for the Danish Doctor I should feel quite safe," I said. "Was he angry?"
"He was very surprised."
"Did he give you back my passport?"
"No."
"Did he get the passport from his Consul?"
"He said so."
"Did he want to know how I got away?"
"He said he hoped you were safe."
"Did he believe you?"
"I don't know."
"Do youthinkhe believed you?"
"I don't know."
"Did helookas if he believed you?"
"He looked surprised."
"And angry?"
"A little annoyed."
"Notpleased?"
"Perhaps!"
"Andverysurprised?"
"Yes, very surprised."
"I don't believe that he believed you."
"Perhaps not."
"Perhaps he will try and find me?"
"But he is no spy," answered Henri. "If he had wanted to betray you he would have done it last night."
"C'est ça!" agreed the others.
"What did you know about him?" I asked. "What made you send him up to me, François? Surely you wouldn't have told him about me unless youknewhe was trustworthy!"
"C'est ça!" agreed big, fat, sad-eyed François. "I have known him for some time. I never doubted him. I am sure he is to be trusted. He has worked very hard among our wounded."
"But why did he speak with the Germans in the restaurant?"
"He is a Dane, he can speak as he chooses."
"Then you don't think he was speaking ofme?"
"No, Madame! C'est évident, n'est-ce-pas? You have left the hotel in safety!"
"Perhaps he will ask Monsieur Claude where I am?"
"Monsieur Claude will tell him he knows nothing about you, has never seen you, never heard of you!"
"Perhaps he will ask Monsieur Claude's sister?"
"We must tell her not to tell him where you are."
"What!"
I started violently.
"Do you mean to say that you haven't warned her already not to tell him where I've really gone to?"
"But of course she will not tell him. She is devoted to you, Madame."
"Call me Louisa."
"Louisa!"
"She might tell him to get rid of him," says Ada slowly.
"C'est ça!" agree the others thoughtfully.
And at that all the terror of last night returns to me. It returns like amemory, but it is troublous all the same.
And then, opening my bag to inspect its contents, I suddenly see a big strange key.
What is this?
And then remembrance rushes over me.
It is the key that Mr. Lucien Arthur Jones gave me, the key of the furnished house in Antwerp.
A house! Fully furnished, and fully stored with food! And no occupants! And no Germans! In a flash I decided to get into that house as quickly as possible. It was the best possible place of hiding. It was so good, indeed, that it seemed like a fairy tale that I should have the key in my possession. And then, with another flash, I decided that I could never face going into that housealone. My nerves would refuse me. I had asked a good deal of them lately, and they had responded magnificently. But they turned against living alone in an empty house in Antwerp, quite definitely and positively, they turned against that.
Casting a swift glance about me, I took in that group of faces round the kitchen fire. Who were they, these people? François, and Lenore, Henri, Ada, and the little old grey-moustached man whistling like a bird, who were they? Why were they here among the Germans? Why had they not fled with the million fugitives. Was it possible they were spies? For I knew now, beyond all doubting, that there were indeed such things as spies, though the English mind finds it almost impossible to believe in the reality of something so dedicated to the gentle art of making melodrama. Until three days ago I had never seen these people in my life. I knew absolutely nothing about them. Perhaps they were even now carefully drawing the net around me. Perhaps I was already a prisoner in the Germans' hands.
And yet they were all I had in the way of acquaintances, they were all I had to trust in.
Could I trust them?
I looked at them again.
It was strange, and rather wonderful, to have nothing on earth to help one but one's own judgment.
Then Ada's voice reached me.
"Voici, Louisa!" she is saying. "Voici le photographie de mon Georges."
And she bends over me with a little old locket, and inside I see a small boy's fair, brave little face, and Ada's tears splash on my hand....
"I sent them away because I feared the Alboches might harm them," she breaks out, uncontrollably. "For mon Mari and myself, we have no fear! And we had not money for ourselves to go. But my Georges, and my Clare, and my petite Ada—I could not bear the thought that the Alboches might hurt them. Oh, mes petites, mes petites! They wept so. They did not want to go. 'Let us stay here with you, Mama.' But I made them go. I sold my bijoux, my all, to get money enough for them to go to England. Oh, the English will be good to them, won't they, Louisa? Tell me the English will be good to my petites."
Sometimes, in England since, when I have heard some querulous suburban English heart voicing itself grandiloquently, out of the plethora of its charity-giving, as "a bit fed up with the refugees" I think of myself, with a passionate sincerity and fanatic belief in England's goodness and justice, assuring that weeping mother that her Georges and Clare and little Ada with the long hair curls would be cared for by the English—the tender, generous, grateful English—as though they were their own little ones—even better perhaps, even better!
Ada's tears!
They wash away my fears. My heart melts to her, and I tell her straightway about the house in the avenue L.
"But how splendid!" she cries exuberantly.
"Quel chance, Louisa, quel chance!" cries Lenore.
"To-morrow morning we shall all take you there!" declares Henri.
Their surprise, their delight, allay my last lingering doubts.
"But mind," I urge them feverishly. "You must never let the Danish Doctor know that address."
That night I sleep in a feather-bed in a room at the top of dear Ada's house.
Or try to sleep! Alas, it is only trying. My windows look on a long narrow street, a dead street, full of empty houses, and from these houses come stealing with louder and louder insistence the sounds of those imprisoned dogs howling within the barred doors of the empty houses. Their cries are terrible, they are starving now and perishing of thirst. They yelp and whine, and wail, they bark and shriek and plead, they sob, they moan. They send forth blood-curdling cries, in dozens, in hundreds, from every street, from every quarter, these massed wails go up into the night, lending a new horror to the dark. And through it all the Germans sleep, they make no attempt either to destroy the poor tortured brutes, or to give them food and water, they are to be left there to die. Hour after hour goes by, I bury my head under a pillow, but I cannot shut out those awful sounds, they penetrate through everything, sometimes they are death-agonies; the dogs are giving up, they can suffer no longer. They understand at last that mankind, their friend, who has had all their faith and love, has deserted them, and then with fresh bursts of howling they seem afresh to make him listen, to make him realize this dark and terrible thing that has come to them, this racking thirst and hunger that he has been so careful to provide against before, even as though they were his children, his own little ones, not his dogs. And, they howl, and cry, the dead city listens, and gives no sign, and they shiver, and shriek, and wail, but in vain, in vain. It is the most awful night of my life!
Next morning at ten o'clock, Lenore and I and the ever-faithful Henri (carrying my parrot, if you please!) and Ada strolled with affected nonchalance through the Antwerp streets where a pale gold sun was shining on the ruins.
Germans were everywhere. Some were buying postcards, some sausages. Motor cars dashed in and out full of grey or blue uniforms. Fair, grave, sardonic faces were to be seen now, where only a few brief days ago there had been naught but Belgians' brave eyes, and lively, tender physiognomy. Our little party was silent, depressed. I wore a handkerchief over my head, tied beneath my chin, a big black apron, and a white shawl, and I kept my arm inside Henri's.
"Voici, Madame," he exclaimed suddenly. "Voilà les Anglais."
"Et les Anglaises," gasped Ada under her breath.
We were just then crossing the Avenue de Kaiser—that once gay, bright Belgian Avenue where I had so often walked with Alice, my dear littleLiègeoise, now fled, alas, I knew not where.
A procession was passing between the long lines of fading acacias. A huge waggon, some mounted Germans, two women.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" says Ada.
Lying on sacks in the open waggon are wounded English officers, their eyes shut.
And trudging on foot behind the waggon, with an indescribable steadfastness and courage, is an English nurse in her blue uniform, and a tall, thin, erect English lady, with grey hair and a sweet face under a wide black hat.
"They are taking them to Germany!" whispers Henri in my ear.
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" moans Ada under her breath. "Oh, les pauvres Anglaises!"
It was all I could do to keep from flying towards them.
An awful longing came over me to speak to them, to sympathise, to do something, anything to help them, there alone among the Germans. It was the call of one's race, of one's blood, of one's country. But it was madness. I must stand still. To speak to them might mean bad things for all of us.
And even as I thought of that, the group vanished round the corner, towards the station.
As we walked along we examined the City. Ah, how shocking was the change! People are wont to say of Antwerp that it was very little damaged. But in truth it suffered horribly, far beyond what anyone who has not seen it can believe. The burning streets were still on fire. The water supply was still cut off. The burning had continued ever since the bombardment. I looked at the Hotel St. Antoine and shivered. A few days ago Sir Frederick Greville and Lady Greville of the British Embassy had been installed in that hotel and countless Belgian Ministers. The Germans had tried hard to shell it, but their shells had fallen across the road instead. All the opposite side of the street lay flat on the ground, smouldering, and smoking, in heaps of spread-out burning ruins.
At last we reached the house for which I had the key.
From the outside it was dignified, handsome, thoroughly Belgian, standing in a street of many ruined houses.
Trembling, I put the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed open the door. Then I gasped. "Open Sesame" indeed! For there, stretching before me, was a magnificent hall, richly carpeted, with broad, low marble stairs leading upwards on either side to strangely-constructed open apartments lined with rare books, and china, and silver. We crept in, and shut the door behind us. Moving about the luxurious rooms and corridors, with bated breath, on tip-toe we explored. No fairy tale could reveal greater wonders. Here was a superb mansion stocked for six months' siege! In the cellars were huge cases of white wines, and red wines, and mineral waters galore. In the pantries we found hundreds of tins of sardines, salmon, herrings, beef, mutton, asparagus, corn, and huge bags of flour, boxes of biscuits, boxes of salt, sugar, pepper, porridge, jams, potatoes. At the back was a garden, full of great trees, and grass, and flowers, with white roses on the rose-bush.
Agreeable as was the sight, there was yet something infinitely touching in this beautiful silent home, deserted by its owners, who, secure in the impregnability of Antwerp, had provided themselves for a six months' siege, and then, at the last moment, their hopes crushed, had fled, leaving furniture, clothes, food, wines, everything, just for dear life's sake.
Tender-hearted Ada wept continually as she moved about.
"Oh, the poor thing!" she sighed every now and then. And forgetting herself and her own grief, her angel heart would overflow with compassion for these people whom she had never seen, never heard of until now.
For the first time for days I felt safe, and when Lenore (Madame X.) and her husband promised to come and stay there with me, and bring Jeanette and the old grandmère from the hospital I was greatly relieved. In fact if it had not been for the Danish Doctor I should have been quite happy.
They all came in that afternoon, and Henri too, and how grateful they were to get into that nest.
We quickly decided to use only the kitchen, and Lenore and her husband shewed such a respect for the beauties of the house, that I knew I had done right in bringing the poor refugees here.
Through the barred kitchen windows, from behind the window curtains, we watched the endless rush of the German machinery. Occasionally Germans would come and knock at the door, and Lenore would go and answer it. When they found the house was occupied they immediately went away.
So I had the satisfaction of knowing that I was saving that house from the Huns.
The haunted noontide silence of my solitary walk seemed like a dream now. Noise without end went on. All day long the Germans were rushing their machineries through the Chaussée de Malines, or Rue Lamarinière, or along the Avenue de Kaiser. At some of the monsters that went grinding along one stared, gasping, realising for the first time whatles petits Belgeshad been up against when they had pitted courage and honour and love of liberty against machinery like that. Three days afterwards along the road from Lierre two big guns moved on locomotives towards Aerschot, suggesting by their vastness that immense mountain peaks were journeying across a landscape. I felt physically ill when I saw the size of them. A hundred and fifty portable kitchens ensconced in motor cars also passed through the town, explaining practically why all the Germans look so remarkably well-fed. Motor cycles fitted with wireless telegraphy, motor loads of boats in sections, air-sheds in sections, and trams in sections dashed by eternally. The swift rush of motor cars seemed never to end.
Yet, busy as the Germans were, and feverishly concentrated on their new activities, they still found time to carry out their system as applied to their endeavours to win the Belgian people's confidence in their kindness and justice as Conquerors! They paid for everything they bought, food, lodging, drink, everything. They asked for things gently, even humbly. They never grumbled if they were kept waiting. They patted the children's heads. Over and over again I heard them saying the same thing to anybody who would listen.
"We love you Belgians! Weknowhow brave you are. We only wanted to go through Belgium. We would never have hurt it. And we would have paid you for any damage we did. We don't hate the French either. They are 'bons soldats,' the French! But the 'Englisch' (and here a positive hiss of hatred would come into their guttural voices), the 'Englisch' are false toeveryone.It was they who made the war. It is all their fault, whatever has happened. We didn't want this war. We did all we could to stop it. But the 'Englisch' (again the hiss of hatred, ringing like cold steel through the word) wanted to fight us, they were jealous of us, and they used you poor brave Belgians as an excuse!"
That was always the beginning of their Litany.
Then they would follow the Chant of their victories.
"And now we are going to Calais! We shall start the bombardment of England from there with our big guns. Before long we shall all be in London."
And then would come the final strain, which was often true, as a matter of fact, in addition to being wily.
"I've left my good home behind me and my dear good wife, and away there in the Vaterland I have seven children awaiting my return. So you can imagine ifIand men like me, wanted this war!"
It was generally seven children.
Sometimes it was more.
But it was never less!
The system was perfect, even about as small a thing as that!
For five wild incredible days I remained in Antwerp, watching the German occupation; and then at last, I found my opportunity to escape over the borders into Holland.
There came the great day when François managed to borrow a motor car and took me out through the Breda Gate to Putte in Holland.
Good-bye to Ada, good-bye to Henri, good-bye to Lenore, Jeanette and la grandmère!
I knew now that Madame X. could be trusted to the death. She had proved it in an unmistakable way. In my bag I had her Belgian passport and her German one also. I was passing now as François' wife. The photograph of Lenore stamped on the passport was sufficiently like myself to enable me to pass the German sentinels, and Lenore, dear, sweet, lovable Lenore, had coached me diligently in the pronunciation of her queer Flemish name—which wasnotLenore, of course.
As for my own English passport, Monsieur X. went several times to the young Danish Doctor asking for it on my behalf.
The Dane refused to give it up. "How do I know," said he, "that you will restore it to the lady?"