Woman's Experiences in the Great War — Chapters 23-25

And oh, so triste, so triste!

Never before have I known a sadness like to this.

Not in cemetery, not in ruined town, not among wounded, coming broken from the battle, as on that red day at Heyst-op-den-Berg.

A brooding soul--mist is in the air of Brussels.

It creeps, it creeps.

It gets into the bones, into the brain, into the heart.

Even when one laughs one feels the ghostly visitant.

All the joy has gone from life.

The vision is clouded.

To look at anything you must see Germans first.

Oh, horrible, horrible it is!

And hourly it grows more horrible.

Its very quietness takes on some clammy quality associated with graves.

Movement and life go on all round.

People walk, talk, eat, drink, take the trams, shop.

But all the while the Germans are there, the Germans are in their hotels, their houses, their palaces, their public buildings, Town Hall, Post Office, Palais de Justice, in their trams, in their cafés, in their restaurants-- At last I find a simile.

It is like being at home, in one's beloved home with one's beloved family all around one, and every room full _of cockroaches_!

CHAPTER XXIV THE CULT OF THE BRUTE

Repellant, unforgettable, was the spectacle of the Germans strutting and posing on the steps of the beautiful Palais de Justice.

So ill did they fit the beauty of their background, that all the artist in one writhed with pain.

Like some horrible vandal attempt at decoration upon pure and flawless architecture these coarse, brutish figures stood with legs apart, their flat round caps upon their solemn yokel faces giving them the aspect of a body of convicts, while behind them reared those noble pillars, yellow and dreamlike, suffering in horror, but with chaste dignity, the polluting nearness of the Hun.

The more one studies Hun physiognomy and physique, the more predominant grow those first impressions of the Cult of the Brute.

Brutish is the clear blue eye, with the burning excited brain revealing itself in flashes such as one might see in the eye of a rhinoceros on the attack.

Brutish is the head, so round and close cropped, resembling no other animal save German.

Brutish are the ears flapping out so redly.

The thick necks and incredibly thick legs have the tenacious look of elephants.

And oh, their little ways, their little ways!

In the Salle Du Tribunal de Commerce they put up clothes-lines, and hung their shirts and handkerchiefs there, while a bucket stood in the middle of the beautiful tesselated floor.

And then, in exquisite taste, to give the Belgians a treat, this interior has been photographed and forced into an extraordinary little newspaper published in Brussels, printed in French but secretly controlled by the Germans, who splatter it with their photographs in every conceivable (and inconceivable) style.

And so we see them in their kitchen installed at the foot of the Monument, wearing aprons over their middle-aged tummies, blucher boots, and round flat caps.

A pretty picture that!

They posed themselves for it; alone they did it.

And this is how.

They tipped up a big basket, and let it lie in the foreground on its side.

Two Germans seized a table, lifting it off the ground.

One man seated himself on a wooden bench with a tin of kerosene.

Half a dozen others leaned up against the portable stoves, with folded arms, looking as if they were going to burst into Moody and Sankey hymns.

All food, all bottles, were hidden.

The dustbin was brought forward instead.

And then the photographer said "gut!"

And there they were!

It was the Hunnish idea of a superb photograph of Army Cooks.

Contrast it with Tommy's!

How do you see Tommy when a war photographer gets him?

His first thought is for an effect of "Cheer-oh!"

He doesn't hide bottles and glasses.

He brings them out, and lets you look at them.

He doesn't, in the act of being photographed, lift a table.

He lifts a tea-pot or a bottle if he has one handy.

Give us Tommy all the time.

Yes.

All the time!

Another photograph shews the Huns in the Auditoire of the Cour de Cassation!

More funny effects!

They've brought forward all their knap-sacks, and piled them on a desk for decoration.

They themselves lie on the carpeted steps at full length.

But they don't lounge.

They can't. No man can lounge who doesn't know what to do with his hands.

And Germans never know what to do with theirs.

When I saw that picture, showing the Hun idea of how a photograph should be taken, I felt a suffocation in my larynx.

Then there was a gem called Un Coin de la Cour de Cassation.

This shewed dried fish and sausages hanging on an easel!

cheeses on the floor; and washing on the clothes-line.

And opposite this, on the other page was a photo of General Leman and his now famous letters to King Albert, the most touching human documents chat were ever written to a King.

SIRE,

Après des combats honorables livrés les 4, 5, et 6 août par la 3ème division d'armée renforcée, a partir du 5, par la 15ème brigade, j'ai estimé que les forts de Liège ne pouvaient plus jouer que le rôle de forts d'arrêt. J'ai néanmoins conservé le gouvernement militaire de la place afin d'en coordonner la défense autant qu'il m'était possible et afin d'exercer une action morale sur les garnisons des forts.

Le bien-fondé de ces résolutions à reçu par la suite des preuves sérieuses.

Votre Majesté n'ignore du reste pas que je m'étais installé au fort de Loncin, à partir du 6 août, vers midi.

SIRE,

Vous apprendrez avec douleur que ce fort a sauté bier à 17 h. 20 environ, ensevelissant sous ses ruines la majeure partie de la garnison, peut-être les huit-dixièmes.

Si je n'ai pas perdu la vie dans cette catastrophe, c'est parce que mon escorte, composée comme suit: captaine commandant Collard, un sous-officier d'infanterie, qui n'a sans doute pas survécu, le gendarme Thevénin et mes deux ordonnances (Ch. Vandenbossche et Jos.

Lecocq) m'a tiré d'un endroit du fort ou j'allais être asphyxié par les gaz de la poudre.

J'ai été porté dans le fossé où je suis tombé.

Un captaine allemand, du nom de Gruson, m'a donné à boire, mais j'ai été fait prisonnier, puis emmené à Liège dans une ambulance.

Je suis certain d'avoir soutenu l'honneur de nos armes.

Je n'ai rendu ni la forteresse, ni les forts.

Daignez me pardonner, Sire, la négligeance de cette lettre je suis physiquement très abimé par l'explosion de Loncin.

En Allemagne, où je vais être dirigé, mes pensées seront ce qu'elles ont toujours été: la Belgique et son Roi.

J'aurais volontiers donné ma vie pour les mieux servir, mais la mort n'a pas voulu de moi.

G.

LEMAN.

CHAPTER XXV DEATH IN LIFE

What is it I've been saying about gaiety?

How could one ever use such a word?

Here in the heart of Brussels one cannot recall even a memory of what it was like to be joyful!

I am in a city under German occupation; and I see around me death in life, and life in death.

I see men, women, and children, with eyes that are looking into tombs.

Oh those eyes, those eyes!

Ah, here is the agony of Belgium--here in this fair white capital set like a snowflake on her hillside.

Here is grief concentrated and dread accumulated, and the days go by, and the weeks come and pass, and then months--_then months_!

--and still the agony endures, the Germans remain, the Belgians wake to fresh morrows, with that weight that is more bitter and heavier than Death, flinging itself upon their weary shoulders the moment they return to consciousness.

Yes.

Waking in Brussels is grim as waking on the morn of execution!

Out of sleep, with its mercy of dream and forgetfulness, the _Bruxellois_ comes back each morning to a sense of brooding tragedy.

Swiftly this deepens into realization.

The Germans are here.

They are still here.

The day must be gone through, the sad long day.

There is no escaping it.

The Belgian must see the grey figures striding through his beloved streets, shopping in his shops, walking and motoring in his parks and squares.

He must meet the murderers in his churches, in his cafés. He must hear their laughter in his ears, and their loud arrogant speech.

He must see them in possession of his Post Offices, his Banks, his Museums, his Libraries, his Theatres, his Palaces, his Hotels.

He must remain in ignorance of the world outside.

Worst of all!

When his poor tortured thoughts turn to one thought of his Deliverance, he must confront a terror sharper than all the rest.

Then, he sees in clear vision, the ghastly fate that may fall upon the unarmed Brussels population the day the Germans are driven out.

The whole beautiful city may be in flames, the whole population murdered.

There is no one who can stop the Germans if they decide to ruin Brussels before evacuating it.

One can only trust in their common-sense--and their mercy!

And at thought of mercy the _Bruxellois_ gazes away down the flat, dusty road--away towards Louvain!

The peasants are going backwards and forwards to Louvain.

Little carts, filled with beshawled women and children, keep trundling along the road.

A mud-splashed rickety waggonette is drawn up in front of a third-rate café.

"Louvain" is marked on it in white chalk.

On a black board, in the café window, is a notice that the waggonette will start when full.

The day is desperately wet.

There is a canvas roof to the waggonette, but the rain dashes through, sideways, and backwards and forwards.

Under cover of the rain as it were, I step into the waggonette, and seat myself quietly among a group of peasants.

Two more get in shortly after.

Then off we start.

In silence, all crouching together, we drive through the city, out through the northern gateway;

soon we are galloping along the drear flat country-road that leads to the greatest tragedy of the War.

It is ten o'clock when we start.

At half-past eleven we are in Louvain.

On the way we meet only peasants and little shop-keepers going to and from Brussels.

Over the flat bare country, through the grey atmosphere comes an impression of whiteness.

My heart beats suffocatingly as I climb out of the waggonette and stand in the narrow Rue de la Station, looking along the tram-line.

The heaps of débris nearly meet across the street.

The rain is falling in Louvain; it beats through the ruined spaces; it does its best to wash out the blood-stains of those terrific days in August.

And the people, oh, the brave people.

They are actually making a pretence of life.

A few shops are opened, a café opposite the ruined theatre is full of pale, trembling old men, sipping their byrrh or coffee; Louvain is just alive enough to whisper the word "_Death!

_" But with that word it whispers also "Immortality."

In its ruin Louvain seems to me to have taken on a beauty that could never have belonged to it in other days.

Those great fair buildings with gaps in their sides, speak now with a voice that the whole world listens to.

The Germans have smashed and flattened them, burnt and destroyed them.

But the glory of immortality that Death alone can confer rests upon them now.

Out of those ruins has sprung the strongest factor in the War.

Louvain, despoiled and desolate, has had given into her keeping the greatest power at work against Germany.

Louvain, in her waste and mourning, has caused the world to pause and think.

She has made hearts bleed that were cold before; she has opened the world's eyes to Germany's brutality!

Actually, in Africa, Louvain it was that decided a terribly critical situation.

Because of Louvain, many, many hesitating partisans of Germany threw in their cause with the Allies.

Ah, Louvain!

Take heart!

In your destruction you are indestructible.

You faced your day of carnage.

Your civilians bravely opposed the enemy.

It was all written down in Destiny's white book.

The priests that were shot in your streets, the innocent women and children who were butchered, they have all achieved great things for Belgium, and they will achieve still greater things yet.

Louvain, proud glorious Louvain, it is because of you that Germany can never win.

Your ruins stand for Germany's destruction.

It is not you who are ruined.

It is Germany!

* * * * * I wander about.

I am utterly indifferent to-day.

If a German officer took it in his head to suspect me I would not care.

Such is my state of mind wandering among the ruins of Louvain.

I am surprised to find that in the actual matter of ruins Louvain is less destroyed than I expected.

Compared with Aerschot, the town has not been as ruthlessly destroyed.

Aerschot no longer exists.

Louvain is still here.

Among the ruined monuments, houses and shops are occupied.

An attempt at business goes on.

The heaps of masonry in the streets are being cleared away.

With her interior torn out, the old theatre still stands upright.

The train runs in and out among the ruins.

The University is like a beautiful skeleton, with the wind and rain dashing through the interstices between her white frail bones.

Where there are walls intact, and even over the ruins, the Germans have pasted their proclamations.

Veuve D. for insulting an official was sentenced to ten years in prison.

Jean D. for opposing an official, was shot.

And in flaunting placards the Germans beg the citizens of Louvain to understand that they will meet with nothing but kindness and consideration from Das Deutsche Heer, as long as they behave themselves.

I step into a little shop as a motor car full of German officers dashes by.

"How brave you are to keep on," I say to the little old woman behind the counter.

"It must be terribly sad and difficult."

"If we had more salt," she says, "we shouldn't mind!

But one must have salt.

And there is none left in Louvain.

We go to Brussels for it, but it grows more and more difficult to obtain, even there."

"And food?"

"Oh, the English will never let us starve," she says.

"Mon Mari, he says so, and he knows.

He was in England forty years ago.

He was in the household of Baron D. , the Belgian Ambassador in London.

Would you like to see Mon Mari."

I went into the room behind the shop.

Mon Mari was sitting in a big chair by the window, looking out over some rain-drenched purple cabbages.

He was a little old Belgian, shrivelled and trembling.

He had been shot in the thigh on that appalling August day when Louvain attempted to defend herself against the murderers.

He was lame, broken, useless, aged.

But his sense of humour survived.

It flamed up till I felt a red glow in that chilly room looking over the rain-wet cabbages, and laughter warmed us all three among the ruins, myself, and the little old woman, and Mon Mari.

"Yesterday," he said, "an American Consul was coming in my shop.

He was walking with a German Colonel.

The American says: 'How could you Germans destroy a beautiful city like Louvain?'

And the Alboche answered, 'We didn't know it was beautiful'!"

And the old woman echoes ponderingly: "_Didn't know it was beautiful!

_" CHAPTER XXVI