Chapter 2

Once more we took our seats in the car, but the drive can hardly be described as a triumphal progress. Soldiers walked in front, and soldiers walked at the side, till we arrived at the Hotel of the Angel--of all ironical names! Six women, including the searchers, joined us, and were very pleasant and kindly while our hand luggage was being examined sufficiently for us to get out some things for the night. They had a beautiful time, reading all the letters that lay scattered about in our belongings, and taking the keenest interest in all our possessions. Poor souls! They certainly needed a little diversion. One girl had said good-by to her fiancé that morning, and another was a bride of twenty-four hours. She had married in haste to take the name of the man she loved before he went off to the frontier!

We were allowed to choose our bedrooms, and Kitty and I elected to share one big one. Then we were told that we must be undressed and searched, so one by one we were taken off by two damsels, who were soon able to declare that we were not concealing anything criminal about us.

The big man whose pockets had swallowed up our pass and tickets again appeared upon the scene, and proved to be the burgomaster of the town. He interviewed Lyra in one room--questioning and cross-questioning--and then he came to me. His suspicions seemed to be allaying, and his attitude was almost paternal. Although we had no passports, we were able to prove our identification very successfully--the girls by papers and letters, and I luckily had in my possession my permit to visit all the Italian galleries, with my photo pasted on to it. This proved me to be Conway Evans, living in Florence; but while the examination was going on, I wondered how long it would be before the question of my nationality would crop up.

"Where is your husband?" "Florence, Italy." "Where do your father and mother live?" "Lausanne, Switzerland." "Where is your son?" "With my father and mother." "Where were you born?" "Georgetown, Demerara, South America."

I have always loved my colonial birthplace and suffered gladly the epithet of "Mudhead," but I don't suppose I ever experienced the same relief from it as when I realized that the worthy burgomaster's geography did not locate it amongst the British possessions, and that he was willing to swallow me whole as an American if I could deny my Russian nationality!

We were certainly very kindly treated. A supper of eggs and milk was prepared for us. While we were eating, the German girls sat with us and we got quite friendly. Bit by bit little things pieced themselves together like the pattern of a jig-saw puzzle. Our arrival at Gronau was no unforeseen event. We had been expected,--waited for,--and the fifteen men who had stood across the road to bar our progress had their fifteen guns ready to shoot if our stop had not been _instanter_. Information had been sent from Hannover that we were suspects. Who sent it we are never likely to know--the obsequious hotel proprietor, the owner of the blue eyes, the smiling boy officer, or the insolent waiter. No matter, we were suspects, and the worst conclusions were drawn when we arrived in a car without lights, and when I emerged into the flaring ring of light in a rose-red coat--a Russian colour, pregnant with criminality!! Had we realized our true position when that sudden halt was made, how frightened we should have been! As it was, it never occurred to us that we were in actual danger.

At about one in the morning we went to bed, and dropped asleep from sheer fatigue. At about four Kitty and I woke up and discussed the situation dispassionately. We got out of our beds and looked out of the windows. Rain was falling in sheets, and the world seemed a cold, cheerless, uninviting place. The soldiers guarding us paced up and down, up and down, in the wet. Vitality is low at 4 a.m., and we were as dejected as any two mortals could be.

Stay at Gronau--remain in this God-forsaken place till the European conflagration burnt itself out, cut off from every soul we cared about and unable to communicate--impossible! Having arrived at this logical conclusion, we returned to our beds and went to sleep. At eight o'clock the examiners returned to the charge. We went into a long room with a raised dais. There were long tables ranged down it, covered with stained cardboard mounts for beer-glasses. Cigar ashes were in saucers, cigar ends on the floor. The smell of stale beer permeated the atmosphere. It was an engaging _mise en scène_.

Kitty and I were greeted by the head of police, two sergeants (one of them the bucolic hero of the vanity bag), and one of the girl searchers. The wearisome process began afresh. By the time the turn of my trunk came, the men were clearly bored. I had quantities of papers,--notes, MSS., sketches for lectures, extracts, charts,--papers which would have caused wild interest the evening before, but excitement was on the wane. By eleven o'clock everything had been seen thoroughly. The chief of police beamed upon us kindly. "It has to be done," he explained.

Later the burgomaster reappeared, more paternal than ever, and most kindly disposed. He was really sorry for all we had gone through, and promised he would do all in his power to get us over the border, and he certainly kept his word. Out of his pockets came all our confiscated belongings, and from some safe hiding-place was produced the fatal vanity bag!

At about one o'clock we went off again in the car, escorted by a now friendly policeman and one of the searchers. We were armed with a most reassuring pass, signed by the burgomaster himself, but when we arrived at the frontier and confidently handed it to the official there, he shook his head. "Impossible! Impossible!" he said. With a sudden rush our spirits sank to zero. This was the "most unkindest cut of all," but out of the darkness came light. We were at cross-purposes, and the man thought we wished to motor across the little bridge connecting Germany and Holland. We assured him we had no such desire, that I would take a trolley car to Einschede, charter a Dutch automobile to take us to Amsterdam, and return to the frontier to collect the girls and the luggage. Then came the hoped-for permission, and we all jumped out of the car. There was the little bridge--Kleine Brucke--and beyond Holland, the promised land. A few formalities, a few good-bys, a few planks traversed, and we were safe in a country that was neutral for the nonce: Holland, the stepping-stone to America.

_S.S. Nieuw Amsterdam A week later_