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CHAPTER XXV
INCIDENTS AND OBSERVATIONS

A few weeks after entering prison I was called into the office on the ground floor, where I found myself face to face with a person entirely unknown to me.

“I am Mr. Wassermann, manager of the German Bank,” said this visitor, in introducing himself. “Are you Mr. Beland?”

“Yes, sir; I am,” I replied.

“Then be seated,” he continued. “The day before yesterday I received a letter from one of my fellow-countrymen who is resident in Toronto. He informs me that he has learned from the Canadian newspapers that you are interned here, and he asks me to interest myself on your behalf. My friend adds that he, himself, has not received the slightest annoyance from the Canadian Government. Will you tell me if there is anything I can do for you?”

“You could, no doubt, obtain for me my freedom,” I told him.

“I would like to do it,” he answered, “and I will do all that I can in order to be useful to you, but I really do not know to what extent I may succeed. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Nothing that I know of.”

“Is your cell comfortable?”

“I occupy a cell in company with three others.”

“Would it be more agreeable to you if you were assigned to a cell exclusively your own?”

“It would, indeed,” I said, “for then I could work with more comfort.”

Mr. Wassermann then left me, and a few days after our interview I was removed into a cell reserved for myself alone on the fifth or top floor of the prison. Here the atmosphere was purer than in the other cell, as there was better ventilation. It was brighter, and I had a wider outlook of the sky. I occupied this cell for three years.

The prison was heated by a hot-water system, which was shut off each day at about two o’clock in the afternoon, so that in the evening the atmosphere generally was very cold, so cold in fact, that frequently I would have to go to bed as early as seven o’clock, directly the cells were locked, in order to keep myself warm.

We were allowed to write two letters and four postal cards each month. This was a rule which applied to all prisoners in Germany, without distinction. A letter addressed to a foreign country was detained for a period of ten days, and all correspondence sent by us or directed to us was minutely censored, detention of the letters and censure of the letters being practised as a “military measure.” During the whole period of my imprisonment I never received one single copy of a Canadian newspaper, although I know now that quite a number were from time to time addressed to me.

Courses of instruction in French, English, and German were given daily at the jail, but only on very rare occasions were there any religious services, either Protestant or Catholic. I recall only two or three occasions during the whole of my captivity on which I had the privilege of attending chapel, which was situated in another section of the prison.

German newspapers of all shades of political thought were received in the jail, whether pan-German, Liberal, Conservative or Socialistic in their tendencies. But we were not allowed to read either English or French newspapers, though we knew the big dailies of Paris and London were available at the principal news stands in Berlin. This does not mean, however, that I did not get a glimpse at both English and French newspapers during my captivity. It sometimes happened that one or other of the incoming prisoners had either a London or Paris newspaper concealed in his pockets. There were other means also through which we were able from time to time to obtain newspapers from the allied countries.

Christmas is always celebrated with great pomp in Berlin. On Christmas Eve the prisoners enjoyed a small celebration amongst themselves. There was a Christmas tree, and two or three officers of the Kommandantur, accompanied by a few ladies, came and distributed gifts, which were, for the most part, of the nature of provisions for the most needy of the prisoners.

On Christmas Eve, 1915, enough food was distributed to give each prisoner a good meal. In 1916, when food had become scarce, there was no distribution of provisions, but each prisoner received as a gift an article of underwear or a new pair of socks. In 1917, there was a Christmas tree, but no gifts of any kind. The economic situation in the interior of Germany had become such that neither food nor clothing were available for the prisoners.

In the course of one of my walks in the park during the last year of my imprisonment, I saw the then idol of the German people–the great General Hindenburg. Accompanied by an officer, he was driving in an automobile along the street which borders the Tiergarten. My escort and I were on the sidewalk when the famous general passed. I had a distinct view of his features. When we got back to the jail my companion announced with great gusto to his fellow-officers that he had seen General Hindenburg. As they received his announcement with incredulity, I was called upon to corroborate the statement of my escort, and then they looked upon me with actual envy. According to their way of thinking, I was one of the luckiest men on earth! The mere sight of so great a general, they thought, should be regarded as a red-letter day in a man’s life history! Such was their veneration, respect, and admiration for the chief of staff. Bismarck in all his glory was never arrayed in such a halo of glory as Hindenburg wore in the mind’s-eye of the Germans of that day.

The German people are not demonstrative. They are taciturn and dreamy. One day I was on the station platform waiting for the train to take me and my guard to the park. The noon editions of the newspapers were on sale and were being bought with avidity. They contained some sensational story or another. It was, according to the best of my memory, the report of the Austro-German offensive directed against the Italians in November, 1917. The advance on the enemy and the capture of forty thousand prisoners were announced in scare headings.

After glancing over the news myself, I turned to observe the attitude of the readers around me. I continued my observations as the train moved out of the station, and I did not notice one smile among the whole crowd of Germans; nor was there any apparent desire on the part of any man to discuss the events with his neighbor. To them the news appeared to be one of the most natural events in the world. I asked myself: Have these people commenced to realize that all these victories do not bring the war any nearer to the end they desire? Or, has their feeling of enthusiasm become deadened by three years of unrelenting fight? I leave it to the reader to appreciate now, in the light of subsequent events.

The first American citizen interned in the Stadtvogtei was an unhealthy-looking man whose name I now forget. It was during the absence of Mr. Gerard, the United States Ambassador, in the month of October, 1916, I believe. This man claimed that he never would have been interned if Mr. Gerard had been in Berlin. He often expressed to us fears as to the security of Mr. Gerard. He was under the impression that Germany desired his disappearance, and that on his return to Germany the United States Ambassador ran a great danger of being sent to the bottom of the sea. He was convinced that Mr. Gerard was extremely hated in Berlin and was considered the enemy of Germany’s interests.

It may not be out of place to mention here that at one time there was quite a controversy in the German newspapers concerning Mrs. Gerard. Certain sheets had accused Mrs. Gerard of lack of good manners, and this to the extent of having on one occasion pinned the Iron Cross to the collar of her pet dog and to have promenaded the streets of Berlin with the animal thus “dressed up.” The alleged incident created such a stir that the semi-official newspaper “Le Gazette de l’Allemagne du Nord” published an editorial on the subject. It was therein stated that the allegations against Mrs. Gerard were false and that Mr. and Mrs. Gerard had conducted themselves always in a manner absolutely above reproach.

Very seldom a day passed without one of the non-commissioned officers submitting this question to the British prisoners, “When shall we have peace?” The answer was invariably the same: “We did not know.” How could we? However, the question gave the Prussians an excuse for prolonging a conversation, during which we would be told that Germany wished for peace, but that the obstacle was England. On more than one occasion several among us–notably a Belgian named Dumont, who never minced his words–retorted: “But why did you start the war?” On one occasion a non-commissioned officer, to whom this question was directly put, insisted that Germany never wished nor planned the war, neither did she start it.

“You are quite right; you are a thousand times right as to starting it,” cried Dumont, giving expression to his anti-German sentiments, “it was not Germany that started the war. We, the Belgians, started it!!!”

The remark was greeted with general laughter, and the non-commissioned officer, in confusion, turned on his heels and left us.

CHAPTER XXVI
TALK OF EXCHANGE

April 19, 1918, will ever remain a memorable date for me. I had just received a request to present myself at the Kommandantur, and a non-commissioned officer was waiting on the ground floor to conduct me to the office. What was the matter now? It had not infrequently happened that a prisoner, after being summoned to the Kommandantur, was never seen by us again. He had been summarily transferred to another prison. My present request, therefore, was not very reassuring. However, I could not hesitate to obey the order. As we were leaving the jail, my escort commenced a conversation in a perfectly casual manner.

“Can you guess why you have been summoned to the Kommandantur?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well, why are you called there?” he insisted.

“Because I am to be granted my liberty,” I hazarded.

“You are quite right,” he said. “But please, do not state that I told you this, for if it were known I had spoken I should be severely reprimanded, perhaps actually punished, for having communicated this news to you.”

At the Kommandantur, which I now visited for the first time, I was at once ushered into a hall and into the presence of Captain Wolfe, the officer who had been in the habit of visiting the jail from time to time in order to take depositions of prisoners. He appeared, as far as the jail was concerned, to be the “big boss” of the institution. That man left a very unenviable impression on the minds of all the British prisoners who passed through the jail. As for myself, I shall find it very hard to forgive him for having ignored the multiplication of requests I addressed to him during my three years of captivity.

As I approached his table he looked up, but he made no sign nor uttered a word until I politely bade him good morning. Then he condescended to speak.

“Good morning,” he replied. “I have asked that you be brought here in order that you may be informed that you are soon to be liberated.”

“When?” I asked.

“Next week.”

“What day?”

“Thursday.”

“Is this certain?” I ventured.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, quickly.

“I am asking you if this time I am really to be liberated?” I said.

“I have told you that your liberation is to be granted; for what reason do you ask now whether it is certain? Do you doubt my word?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied, “I recall the fact that two years ago you communicated to me at the jail news identical with the announcement you now make to me. Nevertheless, I am still your boarder.”

His eyes sought the ceiling vaguely, as one searching his conscience in order to ascertain if there were any reason for self-reproach. Then with a feeble smile he admitted that what I said was true. “Well, on this occasion,” he said, “you may rely upon what I tell you.”

The fact was, I was to be exchanged for a German prisoner in England. The terms of the exchange had been fixed and it was to take place immediately. I had nothing to add, except to express my satisfaction at being, at last, free to leave Germany.

In reply to a question I put to him, he told me that my status of a member of Parliament and a former Minister in the Canadian Government had been responsible for my long detention. He further said that all the documents, papers, catalogues, books, correspondence–everything, in fact, which would be likely to be of any service to me after my liberation, and which I might wish to take with me, would first have to be submitted to the censors in Berlin.

Consequently on returning to the jail, I started to make a selection among the papers and books I had collected and the letters I had received in the course of my captivity. I made up a fairly large-sized parcel of them and sent the package at once to the censor. Everything was duly censored, placed in envelopes, carefully sealed and initialed, and returned to me at the jail.

This all took place on Saturday. On the following Monday, First-Lieutenant Block, commanding officer at the jail, hurriedly came to my cell, saying: “I have good news for you. The German Government, through me, offers to allow you to pass through Belgium, on your way to Holland, in order that you may have the opportunity and pleasure of visiting your children near Antwerp. They are now awaiting an answer from you. Do you accept?”

“My answer will be short,” I said. “I accept with thanks.”

Three years had elapsed since I left Capellen. During that long time I had not been allowed to receive one visit from my daughter or the children of my wife, who had remained at Capellen.

“This will take a few days,” said the officer, “because the several military posts which you will pass, in Belgium, will have to be notified.”

“I have no objection to wait one, two or three weeks if I may have the precious privilege of seeing my children again before going to England,” I said.

“I will communicate your answer at once to the department of Foreign Affairs,” the officer then remarked.

Three days later, the same officer informed me that he had been chosen to accompany me to Brussels and thence to the frontier of Holland. He appeared particularly happy in anticipation of fulfilling this duty. As to myself, I had no objection to make, as this officer had been in contact with me for more than two years, and it would be preferable to travel with some one with whom I was familiar. Moreover, First-Lieut. Block had united his efforts with my own when I solicited permission to go to Belgium during the long illness of my deceased wife.

I had waited through one week, and then another, when the officer–always the same–arrived one day with a gloomy countenance which reflected bad news for me.

“Bad news?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he said; “bad news, surely.”

“I know what it is,” I said. “They refuse to let me pass through Belgium.”

“You have said it.”

I could not repress a movement of impatience and annoyance.

“How is it possible that such a thing can happen?” I asked. “Didn’t you inform me two weeks ago that the German Government had already decided to let me pass through the occupied territory so that I might go and see my children?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then what authority is it that is so highly situated that it can override a decision taken by the Government?”

“It is the military authority!”

“Well,” I said, rather dryly, “when shall we start for Holland?”

“As soon as you are ready.”

“Then, we will leave this evening or to-morrow. The sooner the better, now,” I told him.

Our departure was accordingly arranged to take place on Friday night, May 9.

CHAPTER XXVII
TOWARDS LIBERTY

One cannot but look forward with feelings of deep emotion to the moment when he will leave a prison where he has been detained for three years and where he has made sincere and devoted friends. A large number of those who had been my companions in captivity had already left the jail, but there remained some ten prisoners of British nationality–particularly three or four–who were very dear to me.

On the Friday, some hours previous to the time of my departure, I obtained from the sergeant-major permission to receive in my cell, between 7 and 8 o’clock in the evening, all the British prisoners. The reader will remember that the cells were usually locked for the night at 7 o’clock. These men then assembled in my cell and there for this last hour we talked over the events of the war and the probable length of their detention. Notwithstanding the joy I felt at the prospect of getting out of this hell, I regretted leaving behind me those with whom I had shared the lonesomeness of captivity, shared the hardships received at the hands of our jailers, and deprived of liberty and the beneficence of their mother country.

The train was to start at 9 o’clock, and my escort and I were to leave the jail at 8 o’clock. It was at this hour that I said farewell to these worthy fellows. I was a free man. They were to remain prisoners. We were all under the influence of a powerful emotion.

The train was due to depart from Silesia Station. I was accompanied thereto by three military men: an orderly, a non-commissioned officer, and an officer. The officer was to accompany me as far as the frontier, and when we reached the station, he said he proposed to ask the authorities to allow us to occupy a compartment exclusively to ourselves, as we would have to spend the whole of one night on the train. With this end in view, he interviewed the station master, and when the train arrived at the station this official considerately placed a compartment at our disposal.

The officer had to give what was accepted as a valid reason of state in order to obtain this privilege. It was the transportation of a prisoner of British nationality through German territory. This was sufficient. The conversations “this British prisoner” might have overheard had he been allowed to mingle with others on the train, might have been indiscreet and of a nature calculated to harm the German interests should they be repeated in England!

Whether that was the correct view of the matter or not, or whether other reasons prompted my companion to make the demand, certain it is that a whole compartment was placed at our disposal, and in order that it should not be “besieged” by other passengers a notice was affixed to the glass pane of the door opening into the corridor of the train to the effect that in the compartment there was a British prisoner. To this intimation was added the one word: “Gefahrlich,” which in German means: DANGEROUS!

When I afterward read this notice, which had been posted against myself, I could not repress a smile.

All trains which leave the Silesia Station en route for Holland must cross the city of Berlin and pass in front of the famous Stadtvogtei prison. I was aware of this fact, and when we reached this point–the train was then traveling at full speed–I stood at the window to get a last look at those dark grey walls which during three long years had separated me from the outer world. To my great surprise, I saw that the sergeant-major had allowed my former companions in captivity to open one of the windows on the fifth story of the jail and there they stood waving their handkerchiefs as a sign of farewell. “Poor, unhappy fellows!” I said to myself.

The next morning at 8 o’clock, we arrived at Essen, the town where the famous Krupp works are situated. Here we had to change trains. The incoming train was late, and the officer and I had to pace up and down the platform of the station of that great city for fifteen or twenty minutes before the train, which was to convey us near the frontier, arrived. Then we took our seats and reached our destination at about noon. But my troubles were not yet over. I had to wait a little longer to obtain absolute freedom.

Through a mistake by the orderly my baggage had been checked through to a more northerly station. Inquiries were made by telegraph and we received a reply from the officer in command of the military post addressed advising patience and the baggage would be returned the following day. Thus we were compelled to remain for the night in this German frontier village of Goch, where it was a serious problem to obtain mid-day and evening meals as we were without food cards. However, when one, after prolonged confinement, is breathing the air of comparative liberty, and knows that the morrow will give him absolute freedom, he can, without much difficulty, overcome the pangs of a hungry stomach!

At noon the next day the trunks which had strayed returned to me safely, and I was ready and anxious to continue the journey over the remaining two or three miles which separated us from the frontier where final inspection was to take place and adieux said.

I was on that day–Sunday, May 11, 1918–the only passenger bound for Holland. The train consisted of a locomotive and one coach. We halted at a small temporary station and my personal belongings were duly deposited in line. The arrival of “a prisoner of British nationality,” had been anticipated, and German inspectors of both sexes surrounded me and my baggage. The duty of the women was to examine female passengers, and as they had nothing to do in the present instance they remained as spectators, passive, but interested!

The inspection was very minute, and, I must add, was not intelligently executed. The non-commissioned officer charged especially to inspect my baggage proved himself to be an extremely stupid fellow. In one of my trunks he observed a small leather note-book bearing the gold-lettered inscription: “Tagebuch,” which means a diary. He put it on one side with the apparent purpose of confiscating it. I protested, and I asked why he wished to retain what was really a new note-book, as there was no writing in it? He replied that the little book “contained printing,” that his instructions were to confiscate everything written or printed.

What stupidity! I thought to myself. I again pointed out that the note-book contained not one word of writing, and that the only “printed matter” was the small engraved label on the cover. But this did not convince the stupid fellow. He failed to grasp the fact that the passing of this innocent, unspotted little note-book could not possibly menace the German Empire with dire calamity!

Lieutenant Block, who accompanied me and knew me well, was manifestly annoyed. I ventured to remark: “I exceedingly regret such procedure as this in the examination of my personal property, because under such a process you must necessarily confiscate all my shirts, all my collars, and all my cuffs.”

The man looked bewildered.

“I don’t understand you,” he said. “Why must I confiscate those articles?”

“Because, like the note-book, they each and every one have something printed thereon,” I said. “And what is more serious, instead of the printing being German, which you understand, the names printed on the shirts, collars, and cuffs, are those of English or American firms, which you may not understand.”

The inspector was embarrassed, even vexed. The color rushed to his face and he handed the note-book to Lieut. Block with a gesture as who would say: “Here, take it, and the responsibility that attaches to it. If you like to run the risk of leaving this Britisher in possession of the note-book, do so. I wash my hands of the possible danger!”

Lieut. Block returned the book to me without a moment’s hesitation.

A large number of photographs addressed to me either from Canada or from Belgium were confiscated, although they had previously passed the censorship in Berlin. A certain number of photographs, however, escaped the eagle-eye of the inspector. They included those which the reader will find illustrating this story. As to the other printed or written documents which I brought out of Germany, they were subjected in Berlin to a severe censorship. They were those documents which had been placed in sealed envelopes and checked by the chief censor. These were passed at the frontier without further examination.

The moment had now arrived for me to go my way. The frontier was but a few yards distant. My baggage was put back into my compartment, the officer accompanied me to the door of the coach, we exchanged a few words, shook hands, and separated.

I will use a sentence here to testify on behalf of this officer, First-Lieutenant Block, that in the course of my sufferings he did all that lay in his power to obtain from the authorities the privileges I repeatedly applied for. Our efforts, as I have shown, were unavailing, but this was not Lieutenant Block’s fault.

Mr. Wallace Ellison, who published his “Recollections” in Blackwood’s Magazine, has given similar testimony regarding Officer Block. His two years’ contact with the prisoners of British nationality gave him an opinion of us far different to the misguided views he held previously.

The train started and an hour and seven minutes later we were at the frontier station, in Holland. From the window of my compartment, I could see inside the station the little customs inspectors of Queen Wilhelmina!

I was free! What a grand feeling is that of liberty after three years’ captivity! Every tree, every leaf, house, seems to smile on you!

At five o’clock the same afternoon, I was in Rotterdam.