Part 1

Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/inprisoncitybrus00twelrich

Transcriber's note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

IN THE PRISON CITY BRUSSELS, 1914-1918

A Personal Narrative

by

J. H. TWELLS, JR.

Author of “The Higher Law” “Et Tu Segane” etc.

London: Andrew Melrose Ltd. 3 York Street, Covent Garden, W.C. 2 1919

TO C. H. M. THE “COMPANION” WHOSE CARE AND SYMPATHY GREATLY LIGHTENED THE DARK YEARS FOR ME, AND COMFORTED THE LIVES OF SO MANY SUFFERERS, THIS VOLUME IS, WITH DEVOTED AFFECTION, GRATEFULLY DEDICATED

PREFACE

These reminiscences of prison years in Brussels, during the entire German occupation, aim merely at giving an accurate account of the city’s moral atmosphere, and of certain events which came to me first-hand and have not yet been recorded. Only indubitable facts are related, while many of, perhaps, greater and more tragic interest, already made public, or reaching me through roundabout channels, have been omitted.

This slight record, which, in great part, lay for many months buried under Belgian soil, to escape German inquisition, may appear an unnecessary addition to the volumes of more important matter already produced by the war. But as the United States, after long-forgiving delay, entered the conflict heart and soul—as England, the land of my forefathers both paternal and maternal, performed very miracles and risked her all for a cause so great—it seems my duty, as that of every eye-witness, to give all positive evidence possible, to those who must bear the consequent taxation, that the cause was worthy of the vast sacrifices it demanded.

J. H. T., JR.

“See with what heat these dogs of Hell advance To waste and havoc yonder world, which I So fair and good created!”

_Paradise Lost._

IN THE PRISON CITY

I

“Thank Heaven we are in a sane country at last!” was my thought when, after struggling as best we could through terror-stricken France, my companion and I crossed the Belgian frontier early in August 1914.

Such was the impression made by the calm confidence of a people already meeting the German forces at the point where their inadequately fortified boundaries had been treacherously attacked. The impression may have been partly due to contrast with some days amid the wild confusion and panic of Paris, where, almost devoid of funds (since all letters of credit were valueless), we had existed, with several other stranded travellers, on the charity, or rather faith, of a prominent hotel proprietor. During that never-to-be-forgotten sojourn in the famous capital, we had witnessed something resembling the frenzied excitement of revolution days. The entire population, expecting a repetition of the horrors of 1870, was in a fever of alarm; distraction and tumult reigned on every side. Streets rang night and day with the hysterical cries of newsvendors announcing some unlooked-for lightning flash through the cloud of storm rapidly spreading darkness over the world; echoed to the ceaseless tramp of troops hurrying to the front, and with the shrieks and howls of applause raised by half-maddened crowds thronging the thoroughfares.

Lightning alone can symbolize the rapid shocks that reached us, almost hourly, during those first days. But, as these events are well known, and their recital not an object of this account, they may be left to the more able hands now, doubtless, engaged in presenting them as each writer deems advantageous to his own nation.

Paris, representing the dazed and horrified condition of the whole war-stricken country, indeed appeared mad at that time. “_C’est la guerre!_” was the explanation of every eccentric act; every scarcity; every failure to carry on business. All classes were in the streets, gesticulating, arguing, or shouting wildly to the hastily-mustered troops marching, gay and confident, toward a hell of horrors no one then could even picture. “_C’est la guerre!_” came with dogged bitterness from the lips of mothers, in whose eyes still lingered the tears through which they had smiled farewell to sons they would never see again—from the man behind the counter who absent-mindedly regretted that he had not some article asked for, until it was pointed out to him, in his stock, by a persistent client.

To the French “_La Guerre_” meant the pitiless monster of Bismarck’s time, whose awful shadow still darkened the minds which could remember Germany’s last subtly-planned and opportune onslaught. Although later on, as all the world knows, France faced the situation with admirable courage and a wonderful spirit of self-sacrifice and determination, at that time her people appeared distraught by a calamity too little provided against, and too appallingly suggestive of disaster to be contemplated with the calm and faith quickly developed after the great Marne victory.

That first awful period of consternation eloquently revealed how little France had premeditated conflict with her neighbour, and makes the ever-glorious and miraculous resistance of her and England’s armies, against Germany’s superior forces and perfected equipment, stand out as the one astounding marvel of the war.

When my companion and I were startled, while on a holiday expedition in the French Alps, by the tocsin’s ominous tolling, we were as dazed as were all others in the quiet Alpine hamlet so abruptly shaken from its world-ignoring calm.

To us, descending from the eternal peace of snow-clad peaks, knowing nothing of the menace that so rapidly rushed the mightiest of nations into conflict such as the world has never before known, the scene of despair awakened by that summons was inexpressibly affecting. We had left the village in all the joy and prosperity of its gladdest season, and returned to find its streets thronged with weeping and frenzied women, neglected children, and pale-faced men, too stunned for speech.

It was as though some inexplicable cataclysm had struck the place, turning a sane community mad; for at first the significance of that slowly tolling bell was not clear to us. The appalling truth, however, became quickly known, and we, with other aliens, were obliged, if not provided with a _permis de séjour_, to leave the locality within twelve hours and fly from France.

The journey to Paris of twenty-eight hours, side-tracked and shut up as we were in a suffocatingly overcrowded carriage, without food or water, was an experience not likely to be forgotten by anyone who suffered it. It served as a preface to war; a preface which, save for the lack of bloodshed, contained all the moral miseries of battle—struggle, menace, suffering, and even the proximity of death, for several children and women nearly perished of thirst and suffocation.

As the Paris banks were also closed to foreign credit, we arrived there to find no means of increasing our funds in hand—only sufficient to cover the journey back to Brussels (our place of residence), whither, after a much-needed night of repose, we expected to continue our journey the following morning. But “_La Guerre_” willed otherwise! All trains being monopolized for the transfer of troops, we, with several American millionaires and other foreigners, were forced to exist on trust, for a period that appeared indefinite, within the palatial walls of the Grand Hotel.

Looking down from the safe enclosure of windows upon the dark tides of passion and sorrow surging in the streets, it was comical, as well as perplexing, to hear the discourse of these pampered darlings of Fortune who, as yet, had no vaguest idea of war’s true meaning, and seemed to look upon the surrounding agitation as little more than a characteristic of excitable France. There was no definite anxiety shown as to the possible consequences of the outbreak. Its world-encircling terrors could only be foreseen by those who understood the length and breadth of Germany’s ambitions. To the Americans present it meant only a brief European conflict, to which they and their country were in no way related and from which they were anxious to fly with all possible speed. Some remarks there uttered in facetious ignorance of the moment’s real gravity recur to me now in strange contrast to the heartfelt intensity of America’s later sympathy, and her slowly accumulating resentment toward the Powers that made war more a shame to humanity than ever before in history.

“If this imprisonment goes on much longer, I really don’t know what I shall do!” exclaimed the wife of a wealthy New York banker one day as we sat in the sumptuous hotel drawing-room listening to the outer roar; “I have only three francs and twenty centimes between me and death!”

This tragic announcement, from a woman noted for her opulence, was spoken with a mock gravity that called forth general laughter.

“Well, _I_ have just seventy-five centimes!” retorted another equally wealthy dame. “If you will advance me one-fifty, I shall give you a hundred per cent interest when we reach the land of liberty!”

“If we ever _do_ reach it!” was the joking reply. “No, dear lady, it is far too dubious! I imagine we are here to stay until the Germans are beaten!”

“Good gracious! don’t suggest such a thing!” exclaimed another. “That would be _too_ appalling!”

“Oh, it will not be so long! If England comes in, we shall see the end of war in a few weeks!”

“England! Don’t lay your hopes there—England will never come in!”

“She certainly will,” ejaculated the first speaker. “My husband says if Belgium is violated, England will certainly have a hand in the wicked business.”

“Germany is not likely to be so rash as to violate Belgium’s neutrality,” remarked a man present; “but if she does, God help France!”

“_And_ England!” muttered another.

“Well, all I know,” asserted one of the women, “is that Mr. F.—and being a diplomat, he ought to know!—told me this morning it would be folly for England to become embroiled. She isn’t prepared, and she has no army.”

“She has a navy!”

“What use would a navy be against an inland country?” scornfully retorted one of the women; then, as though weary of the folly of her sex, turned to a man who had not yet spoken and asked: “What do _you_ think?”

He shrugged and replied rather disconsolately: “My dear lady, the whole affair is too far beyond my comprehension for me to form any opinion about it. Civilization has been dealt a blow that leaves feeble intellects, like mine, too dazed to think!”

“But do you think England will come in?” persisted his questioner.

“She may and she may not,” was the unsatisfactory reply. “I fail to see what she can accomplish, in her present condition, if she does.”

“Oh, she could be of great use!” exclaimed the banker’s wife. “She could patrol us across the briny deep, and that is all I care about at present! Dear me! if only our cars had not been requisitioned, we might all have been on the sea by now! I do think it rather an imposition to take what belongs to neutrals!”

“They probably never asked to whom the cars belonged,” returned the man. “At a time like this, when every moment lost counts against them, every vehicle for transporting troops is too urgently needed.”

“Oh, I suppose so!” the woman sighed, “but I just wish I had not left mine in Paris. They might have had it and welcome, if they had allowed me to get out first!”

“I can’t understand why _one_ train for foreigners can’t be run through to Calais,” complained another. “There is no _system_—that is the trouble!”

“System!” echoed the man. “How can there be system, in regard to strangers, when the country is shaken as by an earthquake? The most powerful military strength in the world, enhanced by all the devices and war-machinery perfected by half a century of study and preparation, is rushing to overwhelm her unsuspecting and unready forces! What is your discomfort, or mine, or that of any individual, when compared to the almost inevitable ruin threatening France? We can only wait and be patient. Our trials are as nothing in comparison to what every native of this country is now suffering.”

This silenced complaints, and the very typical conversation took a more serious tone. Not one of us really understood the full gravity of the catastrophe. It was too sudden and inexplicable. The sentiments prevailing in Paris, at that time, were scarcely wiser than ours; save that former experience—the trials of a war still remembered by many—added the anguish of apprehension to incredulous amazement. We, meanwhile, were more annoyed than frightened, and looked on the whole matter with egoistic intolerance, angry that our plans should be disturbed by so stupid an affair as international discord!

But as days passed, bringing the astounding information that Belgium was likely to be invaded,—bringing also England’s protest, followed by her entrance into the fray,—even we neutrals began to feel the far-reaching shadow of evil.

There appeared no vaguest chance of getting away from distraught Paris; and, hope of this being gradually eclipsed by sympathy for the harassed people, a number of us offered our services to one of the many Red Cross associations rapidly forming in all quarters of the city. Not knowing what better to do, we entered a long, unventilated hall, crowded with fashionably-attired women, mostly—in this particular organization—stranded Americans eager to be of use, rather than pine in idleness for the comforts of unattainable homes. A hard-faced, very self-important Frenchwoman from one of the hospitals addressed us, and for two hours we perspired in the hall’s breathless atmosphere, while our nerves were racked by her piercing voice uttering a volley of technical terms which not one in ten of her auditors understood. We inscribed our names as would-be helpers, and, anticipating an early departure for the front, provided ourselves with literature likely to prepare us more quickly than the Frenchwoman’s rapid flow of unintelligible speech.

Meanwhile, living on charity was beginning to fret those among us whose financial standing was less widely known than that of others with millions behind them. The entering of the hotel’s vast dining-room to partake of meals we could not pay for became embarrassing. One evening, to avoid this, my companion and I decided to procure edibles and have a Bohemian meal in our own rooms. With this in view, we set forth in search of such refreshments as we could afford. But the soldiers and their friends had been before us; and, as commercial traffic was at a standstill, new stock was not procurable to replace what they had exhausted.

If the city had been for months under siege it could scarcely have been more difficult to obtain food. Every _pâtisserie_ had been sold out; even the _délicatessen_ shops were void and the proprietors offensively curt in reply to our amazed inquiries.

“Why?” cried one, glaring personal hatred upon us. “We are in war! _Voilà pourquoi!_ What do you expect? Next week we shall be starving, with _les Allemands_ at our door!”

At another shop we secured two slices of cold ham, a bottle of olives, yielded grudgingly, and, at still another, some cream-cheese. Butter was invisible, and our search for bread in vain, until, after walking miles, we obtained two stale rolls, all that remained of yesterday’s stock, with the usual remark: “_C’est la guerre!_ What would you?”

Looking back, this seems incredible at so early a date; but so it was, and demonstrated to what a state of panic the people were brought. They appeared to suspect a German in everyone whose accent was foreign, and my own probably was accountable for the ungracious treatment we received.

The following morning, much to the general delight and surprise, glad tidings reached us from the U.S. Embassy—a train was to leave next day for Brussels! Although forbidden to take other luggage than a hand-satchel, we willingly left our large pieces at the hotel, and took our departure—quite forgetting that our names were inscribed as first-aid to the wounded! However, as ignorant paupers would hardly have been of much use, we and other destitute foreigners who fled at the first chance, were doubtless rather a good riddance than a loss.

The journey proved almost normally rapid and comfortable; and, once in Belgium, where financial difficulties would be remedied, we hoped to give what little help we could to those so bravely preparing to check the menaced invasion.

II

Brussels appeared, at first sight, little affected by the tragedy already in action at her outer gates. Banks were doing business as usual; the streets calm; the shops and cafés crowded with apparently indifferent throngs, enjoying life with as much appearance of security as a year earlier. Although it was the dead season, some smart equipages were to be seen—a pleasant sight after the dearth of horses and vehicles in Paris! Taxi-cabs were still to be had, and only the fact that we were stopped four times by Belgian gendarmes—while driving to the hotel where, owing to lack of servants, we were obliged to remain a few days—suggested the city’s knowledge that war was raging without.

But during that short drive other signs of change became visible. Innumerable red crosses blazed from the whitened windows of all public buildings and on the house-roofs; while, here and there, a demolished shop bearing a German name gave evidence of former excitement now stilled by a spirit of fearless confidence. Sometimes, also, a troubled face in the crowds told of thoughts centred on some brave hero at Liège; or a motor-car, going at reckless speed, suggested that the more responsible were actively engaged preparing to meet an overwhelming avalanche, of whose magnitude no one in Belgium then had any adequate conception. However, there was, on the whole, so little evidence of change in the city that it was difficult to believe a hurriedly mustered army was even then straining in deadly conflict almost within cannon-hearing of those bright streets. Several of the larger business houses, however, were closed, or converted into hospitals for the wounded. Such was the “Financière” building, which had been beautifully fitted up with every modern convenience, and provided with good surgeons, nurses, and everything necessary for competent and comfortable treatment.

We all immediately took part in these preparations, each one eager to do his share, however little, in readiness for the first sad harvest of battle. No one then realized how few of Belgium’s brave sons would reap the benefit of these fond efforts; but it was not long ere appalling circumstances made this clear to the disappointed inhabitants.

Hour by hour shocking news reached us from the scene of struggle, such as the fall of one fort after another at Liège, followed by the enemies’ onward rush; while tales of their pitiless cruelty caused brief waves of apprehension to pass over the city—waves quickly calmed, however, by indomitable and astounding faith.

That the French and British would come in time was the prevailing argument; there was no danger nor cause for discouragement. Even though the forts had fallen, Belgium could hold the invaders in check until adequate assistance arrived; her forces might be driven back, step by step, for a short distance, but soon would have the upper hand and drive the foe back into Germany! Such was the reasoning of a public blinded by their heroic impulse to the situation’s real peril. No sign of discouragement could be detected even when the remorseless grey tide was sweeping through ruined and blood-soaked districts toward the heart of their land.

And it was not merely the uneducated who received the ill-tidings with this amazing confidence, but men of high standing and competent judgment. Never, at that time, did I hear a word indicative of fear; the enthusiastic faith of the first days still remained unshaken.

Although the Government had already withdrawn from Brussels, no one believed that the capital was in danger; at any rate, no word was uttered in my hearing that betrayed the least anxiety on that score.

“Have no fear,” the hotel proprietor remarked, as I passed through the lobby after breakfast on that fateful 20th of August 1914; “there is no danger of _les Boches_ getting to Brussels. Our men are falling back only to gather force and attain better positions. Besides, the French and British are now at hand; we need only hold out a day or two longer, and then—_nous verrons_!” On every side the same confidence greeted me: “_Les Boches_ are checked!... _Ils sont fichus!_... The British are in Antwerp!... In two weeks we shall be in Berlin!” and so forth; all spoken with a sort of delirious recklessness, suggesting determination not to recognize disquieting facts.

An hour or so after I left the hotel that morning, my way was blocked by a silent wall of people, lined on either side of the Boulevard d’Anvers, watching, in stupefied wonder, a seemingly interminable tide of grey-clad warriors—the Prussian Fourth Corps, under command of General von Armin—proudly taking possession of their fair city!

If that haughty and arrogant horde had dropped into our midst from a cloudless sky, I hardly think it could have caused more awed astonishment to the general public. So fantastically harrowing had been the tales of their uncivilized deeds in other quarters of Belgium, that the half-stunned people had come to think of the German army as something fabulous, something they were not likely ever to behold as a material reality. Stories of outrages, inconceivable in the present age, had been so mingled with encouraging reports of the monster’s repulse, that popular opinion was unable to decide what was true and what was not—was unable to picture the awful menace rushing upon them as other than a moral nightmare, which, they imagined, would disappear as abruptly and abnormally as it had come.

The dazed amazement in the faces of that watching throng might have moved a devil to tears, or awakened rage in the heart of an angel—so silent and helpless they appeared before the mighty and pitiless force advancing through the stunned city—so callously indifferent was that force to the shame of their deed! It was like seeing a child confounded by the blow of a strong man who strode by, smiling with triumph at sight of its helpless pain. It made one ashamed to be akin in species to a race capable of committing, and so arrogantly, a wrong never to be effaced from their history.

Unknown to us at the time, Monsieur Adolphe Max, the ever-to-be-honoured Bourgmestre of Brussels, had gone early that morning under a white flag to implore the officer in command for permission to telegraph a plea to the German Emperor that his army be forbidden to enter Brussels—the city where he, the Kaiser, had been welcomed and entertained, only a week or so earlier, by the Belgian King and people. The officer promised to communicate his request to the general-in-chief. But the only reply Monsieur Max received was, not only the entrance of the troops, but a demand for enormous quantities of food and a _contribution de guerre_ from the city of Brussels of fifty million francs, to be paid in three days; and from the province of Brabant four hundred and fifty millions, to be paid before the 1st of September! This was William the Second’s response to a people whose faith he had betrayed, who had done him no other ill than refusing to aid his frantic impatience to overwhelm and crush a neighbour and friendly state.

The following quantities of food-stuffs were at once demanded from Brussels by the German army and delivered:

On 21st August, 30,000 kilos of bread, 5000 kilos of smoked meat, 17,000 kilos live-stock, 10,000 kilos of rice, 1400 kilos of coffee, 1700 kilos of sugar, 700 kilos of cacao, 1700 kilos of salt, 120,000 kilos of oats, 170 kilos of tea, 10,000 litres of wine.