CHAPTER VICHRISTMAS IN COLOGNEXmas 1919
Xmas 1919
Christmas-timein Germany! I am haunted by the recollection of the beautiful passage in Mr. Clutton Brock’sThoughts on the War, a book which many of us read when no improbability seemed greater than that of spending Christmas in Cologne in the wake of a British Army of Occupation: “Forget for a moment the war and wasted Belgium and the ruins of Rheims Cathedral, and think of Germany and all that she means to the mind among the nations of Europe. She means cradle songs and fairy stories and Christmas in old moonlit towns, and a queer, simple tenderness always childish and musical with philosophers who could forget the world in thought like children that play, and musicians who could laugh suddenly like children through all their profundities of sound.”
In this same essay Mr. Clutton Brock goes on to say how these Germans of the past were always spoken of as “the good Germans,” and the world admired their innocence and imposed upon it. Finally they grew tired of being imposed upon, so they determined to put off their childishness and take their place among the strong nations of the world. What the consequences of that change of attitude have been we all know too well. The good Germans—the simple people who were bullied by their neighbourstill they made up their minds to be clever and worldly! If this be the right reading of history, what an immeasurable weight is added to the whole tragedy of the war.
It is to that older, more homely Germany one’s thoughts turn at Christmastide. Our Christmas customs are largely German in origin. Christmas trees and candles, Santa Claus with his bag of gifts—all these things are in full swing here. Which of us as a child has not thrilled overGrimm’s Fairy Tales? And German toys! Not for a moment would patriotism allow us to confess it, but at heart we know we have missed, and continue to miss very badly, the tin soldiers and other varied delights which in old days reached us from the Fatherland. Cologne before Christmas was placarded by a German peace society, begging parents not to rouse military instincts in their children by giving them tin soldiers. The notice was a curious illustration of the many varied opinions surging upwards in Germany to-day, none of which would have dared to find expression under the old régime. But Germany has certainly not disowned its militarism up to the point of perfection aimed at by the enthusiasts of the peace society in question. The Cologne community as a whole made merry over this appeal, and certainly the sale of tin soldiers in the shops did not seem to be affected by it. Never were toy shops so enchanting and fascinating as those of the Höhe Strasse and the Breite Strasse in their Christmas finery. I flattened my nose forlornly against the plate-glass windows, and mourned over the fact that the total of summers and winters standing to my account removed these delights beyond my reach. Troops of excited children flocked in and round the shops,but for many a German child the matter ended there. Whatever benefits we English may gain by a low exchange, the price of toys in marks this winter makes them prohibitive to all except the well-to-do and the “Schiebers,” the expressive name for profiteers.
The German child normally is in a stronger position about Christmas than the English child, for in this country there are two great days for presents and festivities. Early in December arrives St. Nicholas, bringing with him cakes and nuts and sweets. His visits are paid, of course, during the night, and shoes and stockings are, with the hopefulness of youth, left by the bedside for him to fill. On Christmas Day is the Christmas tree with further cakes and presents and delights. German brutality is always difficult to understand in view of the position held by the children and the obvious wealth of care and affection lavished on them. For in even greater measure than in England is Christmas the children’s feast. During the holiday season the affairs of their elders are temporarily suspended, while the latter devote themselves to a round of juvenile gaiety and amusement. Children’s plays appear at the theatre, even the Opera House abandons Mozart and Wagner and gives special performances ofHänsel und Gretelfor the benefit of juvenile audiences.
I have no recollection of Germany more pleasant than that of the Opera House filled in Christmas week with a crowd of excited children come to listen to Humperdinck’s delightful play. The white frocks filled stalls and boxes like petals of a great bouquet. Large bows of ribbon on the fair heads fluttered like banners in a breeze as the adventures of Hänsel and Gretel and the witch were followed with shrieks of excitement. On one side of mesat a little English girl, holding on tight to her chair so as not to spring out of it altogether; on the other, a little German girl, with a hand thrust firmly into her mouth in order to secure some measure of silence. But as the adventures of the play deepened, the situation proved too much for my small neighbour, who flung herself finally with cries of excitement into her mother’s arms. I envied the actors their audience. It must have been a joy to play in an atmosphere of such entire appreciation. When the culminating moment is reached, and clever Hänsel pops the wicked witch into the oven destined for the children, squeals of joy broke out all over the theatre: squeals only to be renewed in intensity when the oven door was reopened and the witch brought out cooked and browned in the shape of an enormous gingerbread. Let us be thankful for the unconsciousness of childhood, keeping alive in the world great treasures of joy and laughter, when the grim realities of post-war Europe oppress our souls.
But if the toy shops and the theatres and the excitement of the children leave nothing to be desired, the weather has refused to play. Never can I remember so damp and dripping and sodden a Christmas. Our cold snap came in November. Then for a brief space we had frosts and red sunsets: those pre-Christmas sunsets when the German mother with a quaint materialism tells her children that “das Christ-kind bäckt”—the Christ Child is baking cakes for Christmas. But there was little baking this year on the part of the Christ Child. Fog and rain enveloped Cologne for days beforehand in a damp and dripping mantle. In a foreign land I found myself missing the hundred and one small duties which at home have to be carried out at Christmas. It is dull workordering your presents by post. Even so it was all done, and unless I went out in the wet and looked at the toy shops there was nothing to show Christmas was at hand. Finally I was struck by a bright idea. Why shouldn’t we have a Christmas tree? Yes, and presents for the household, including the cross cook. Peace has been signed, and it is the season of peace and goodwill: so why not?
First of all I sounded Maria—this was before the days of the good-tempered Clara. Why shouldn’t we have a Christmas tree—every other house in the street was getting ready for one? Maria’s eyes glistened: she had had no Christmas tree since the war, to see one again would be a joy indeed. Yes, most certainly she would undertake to buy a suitable tree if I wanted one. My next business was to sound our Frau. She too lent a favourable ear to my proposal. No, they had had no Christmas tree since the war, but it would be pleasant to begin again. She had plenty of decorations and candle-holders and would be glad to lend them to me. Madame was as good as her word, and produced boxes of crystal balls and coloured tinsels and a solid wood block into which the tree could be fixed. Throughout a wet and gloomy afternoon Maria and I saw to the decorations, and on Christmas Eve the tree was lit up and our mixed household held a short and curious gathering in the dining-room.
Whatever faults may be urged against the Germans, they are certainly not lacking in a considerable measure of personal dignity. The attitude of our Frau and her maids was everything that was correct. They received their small gifts with pleasure and praised the English Christmas cake, slices of which were handed round. We exchanged greetings and good wishes for Christmas andthe coming year, and the tree with its candles and tinsel bravery was an object of much admiration. But could the inner thoughts of any one of us in the room have been revealed, how strange and painful must the texture have proved!
Of one thing I am certain: the surface of courtesy and amenity between us and our foes has to be restored little by little if we are aiming at a future, however distant, purged of hatred and revenge. The first tentative experiments can only be made between individuals whose circumstances have flung them, like our Madame and ourselves, into a personal relationship which is not unfriendly. As I have said elsewhere, it is easy to hate the abstraction called Germany, but for individual Germans one feels either like, dislike, or indifference the same as for other people. But the growth of a better understanding is likely to be slow and laborious. Even when individuals as individuals do not hate each other, events have dug a chasm between the two nations. The Germans are so curiously insensitive, it is always difficult to realise if they feel things as we should feel them ourselves. But the three German women who had had no Christmas tree since the war and now were looking at a Christmas tree provided by an English woman—what did the situation mean for them? Though obviously pleased with their gifts and the little ceremony, the khaki uniforms in the room spoke of conquest, defeat, overthrow. And for us too there came a flood of memories, memories of friends lost, of young lives cut down in their prime, of homes in England left stricken and empty this Christmastide because the monstrous ambitions of Germany’s rulers would have it so. And even as we talked and exchangedthe old Christmas messages of peace and drank each other’s health, the room and the tree and the candles all seemed to vanish, and in their place I saw the grey desolation and havoc of Flanders, lines of dim figures advancing to attack, rows of graves, silent, mournful.
But if these things are not to have their repetition in a future still more awful than the present we have known, somehow, some way, men must learn the message of Christmas, hard though it be in our distracted world, “Peace on earth, goodwill towards men.” But for once in a way the Revised Version has stepped in with a deeper, more beautiful meaning than that of the old familiar words, “Peace on earth to men of good will.” Peace is not a casual condition. It does not arise automatically when the roar of cannon dies away. It implies effort, sacrifice, and consistent spiritual purpose. Treaties and protocols cannot secure it; without goodwill peace is stillborn. We went through the trials of the war with a high heart and a great endurance. Are our hearts high enough for the final adventure of goodwill?