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seagulls which have of late taken to wintering in Berlin could daily wheel and scream round our balcony for food. The police-station at which my wife and I had to report ourselves twice daily (I applied in vain for permission to report myself only once a day) was fortunately just across the road from our house and the police and I came to tolerate each other good-humoredly as mutual bores. These officials could be pleasant enough, deceptively pleasant, on occasion, but I never forgot in dealing with them that underneath their correct uniform and their smiles lay the unscrupulous bully. Often enough I saw specimens of it in their treatment of the poorer classes and particularly of women who came to them with their humble grievances. My wife and I were supposed to remain within our own four walls from 8 P.M. till 6 A.M. I must confess, however, and I can do so at this distance without trepidation, that my habits were more nocturnal during this period than they had ever been in times of peace; for, having suddenly become willy-nilly a man of leisure, I could, whenever I chose, go out in the evening to concert, theater, lecture or café, and I did so without further ado. It was in the cafés that I could see the English papers, our greatest solace in those long months of the Hun terror. How often did I wish, while reading the English parliamentary reports, that our Snowdens, Outhwaites, Ramsay Macdonalds and others of that ilk could change places with me for a while and perhaps be converted from their folly by knowing Germany and Germany's ruthless aspirations at firsthand. Occasionally Germans who saw me reading the English papers would take me for an American and ask me how I thought the War was going to end. Until experience showed me the absolute hopelessness, not to

say danger, of arguing against their prejudices, I used to try, as tactfully as possible, to put the standpoint of the Allies before them. Repeated observation, however, showed me that their minds were so inoculated with the dogmas of their own Press that they were absolutely immune to all outside influences and to all alien enlightenment. The constant reiteration by Chancellor, M.P.s and newspapers of the statement that Germany had been forced to take up arms in self-defense against an alliance of Powers jealous of German diligence, German science and German success, and bent upon Germany's overthrow and spoliation, had done its work. It thus came about that the German Government could, within a few months of the outbreak of war, allow café readers to have access to enemy newspapers with perfect safety. The Times, in spite of all the abuse the Germans shower upon it, is undoubtedly the most respected and the most attentively read and studied of all the English newspapers in Berlin. I even know of German schoolmasters who have The Times read and discussed in class as an English exercise by the boys in their Gymnasien. The Daily News and Manchester Guardian, though never seen in the cafés, are regarded as the most useful for purposes of quotation in the German Press. In some cafés, instead of The Times, one meets with the Daily Telegraph, or the Daily Mail. As a rule English papers were at least five days old before we saw them, and one must add, there were frequent gaps, perhaps intentional, when they did not get through at all. In February 1917, when the U-boats began their new campaign, the cocksure waiters, who knew that I was English, rather laughed at me for imagining that the London papers would continue to come through. I

enjoyed their discomfiture when after a week or so they had once more to hand me out The Times. Its arrival, though irregular, showed that the seas were not yet entirely closed to British shipping, as the German public then fondly believed. French and Italian papers, too, such as Le Figaro, Le Temps, Le Matin and the Corrière della Sera, were diligently read, as their thumbed and ragged appearance clearly signified. The Swiss, Dutch, and Scandinavian papers were also much in demand and I was sorry when the Censor's ban was put upon what the Germans called the “mendacious” Journal de Genève. American papers hung on the rack almost unread. No one ever seemed to read the Continental Times either, a paper printed in English and loudly proclaiming itself the only American organ on the Continent, a title which it has had to drop since America came in. This nondescript journal has, since the beginning of the War, been subsidized by the German Government and used for anti-English propaganda among the Irish and German-Americans. It is the property of a very chic Viennese woman, the divorced wife of an English journalist. In the early days of the War when all Germany was in a frenzy to shout what it called the “Truth” into American ears, this most virtuous lady could be seen in all her elegance, standing on the footpath outside the Hotel Adlon, trying to sell copies of her paper to the rich Americans then crowding the hotel en route for the United States. Near her as henchman stood a sandwichman flaunting the Stars and Stripes and carrying over his arm a sheaf of copies of this hireling journal which persisted with such effrontery in sailing under the American flag. This tolerance of foreign newspapers did not extend, be it remarked, to

books or pamphlets frankly discussing in German the origins of the War. The book J'accuse, written by a German in German, was absolutely taboo throughout Germany. I had a copy lent me surreptitiously in Berlin, with much whispering and rolling of eyes to signify the danger of being caught with it in one's possession. Its own cover had been torn off and replaced by another bearing the innocent title Englische Grammatik für Anfänger—English Grammar for Beginners. At the house of a Socialist M.P. I was also shown, as a particular delicacy reserved only for the elect, a volume of Raemaekers' cartoons. I remember, too, how at the house of an Independent Socialist, in the earlier days of the War, Dr. Karl Liebknecht stood forward with a copy of the English Blue Book in his hand, as the accuser of Germany's perfidy. With the strange mixture of meekness and apostolic fire that characterizes him, he mercilessly showed up the mendacity of the doctored reports of the German White Book, liber albus puris nivibus candidior. He alone of all the members of the Reichstag present on that tragic 4th of August had had intelligence and above all moral courage enough to protest against the Great Crime. “What,” someone in the room asked him, “do you really suppose our Government reckoned with England's coming into the War?" “Goodness knows!” he said. “They are stupid enough for anything. But anyone with a grain of political insight must have seen that there was no other course open to England.” Liebknecht, as I saw from the way in which he quoted the Blue Book, was thoroughly familiar with English, and his beautiful and talented Russian wife, who was present, told me that he had spent much of his boyhood in England. I also learned from her that he was a direct descendant of

Luther and that his decidedly Jewish appearance was due to his having had a Jewish mother. When next I saw Liebknecht he was in uniform and had just returned in an emaciated condition from the Russian Front where he had been wounded while digging trenches. Most soldiers of his age, he was 45, were employed far behind the Front, but he, like a modern Uriah, had been sent by his Kaiser as near to the firing line as was possible without raising a scandal in the Reichstag. Clad in the ugly uniform of the Schipper, with his narrow stooping shoulders, rough black curly hair and sun-tanned but pallid face, he cut a sorry figure, and was greeted with shouts of friendly laughter as he entered the room where we were sitting. Two other Socialist members of Parliament were present, both of whom had advanced to the rank of corporal, and Liebknecht, who was just a plain private, slyly apologized for his embarrassment in the presence of superiors. In the course of the evening a large envelope was brought to him from his office with one of the famous red paper “Gott strafe England” seals pasted on the back. The envelope was handed round and added to the mirth of this un-Prussian assembly. A short time later, Liebknecht was arrested on the Potsdamer Platz and has since been wearing convict's clothes and making boots in a Berlin jail. Once a month his wife was allowed to see him through the grille. I wonder if there is any other proletariat in the world that would without a murmur have permitted the one leader they had who had the courage of his convictions to be treated as von Kessel has treated Liebknecht. In those August days of terror of 1914, when the Government, through the Press, had wilfully lashed the people into a state of fanatical suspicion against everything English,

Russian, and French, every American displayed his colors in his buttonhole as a protection. I do not for a moment doubt the rumors of those days that credited the infuriated mob with deeds of violence and even murder done on foreigners suspected of being “spies.” Such occurrences were winked at by the police and methodically hushed up by the papers, until at last it was found that the mob in its zeal for the safety of the Fatherland had mauled and ill-treated even irreproachable German officers who happened to be wearing some less familiar uniform! Some of the men in Ruhleben, too, who were marched across the Potsdamer Platz on their way to the Berlin jail on that fateful 6th of November, tell how they walked in fear of their lives, prodded with bayonets, struck at with sticks and spat upon by the jeering crowd. After the internment of the English and French this spy mania to a great extent died down for lack of objects on which to vent itself. But even today, on every railway platform and in every railway carriage, in 'buses and trams, in the theaters and concert halls, in every café and place of business, down to the most insignificant little greengrocers' shops, the police have posted up in two-inch letters “Vorsicht bei Gesprächen—Spionengefahr!"—“Mind what you say—There may be spies about !” I have no doubt there are also such placards in London and elsewhere, but if there are, I have not yet had time to search them out. In the first weeks of the War Germans, soldiers and civilians alike, were inclined to talk very freely. Now they are exceedingly reticent, not only to the neutral and the stranger within their gates, but even in talking to their own countrymen. The constant of ficial warnings in the newspapers and on the advertisement columns at the street corners have helped in

no small measure to produce this Great difficulty was experienced, too, effect. I have frequently traveled in in rooting out the word Adieu, which compartments full of muddy-looking before the war was the only word soldiers coming home on leave, on the ever used in North Germany for Berlin Metropolitan, and never heard "Goodbye." For a time attempts a thing of any interest. In London, were made to replace it with the on the other hand, I have been struck expression Gott strafe England, but by the talkativeness and trustfulness common sense has now accepted Auf of many of our soldiers returning from Wiedersehen as preferable. At the the Front. In the hands of a spy, police-station one day, a neighboring man or woman, these unsuspecting Portierfrau, who knew my nationality, men would be easily pumped. This at for my special benefit sharply rebuked least is my personal impression. Here her departing companion for using in Hampstead where I live I often the word Adieu. “Ach was," she see Germans, sometimes of hypocritical called after her, "Adieu sagt man types that I have reason particularly nicht mehr. Das ist englisch"-"You to loathe-men whom, if I had any oughtn't to say Adieu. It's English!" power, I would cause to be interned In comparing the street pictures without a moment's delay.

presented by London and Berlin, The Chauvinistic rage that in those nothing strikes me more in London, days wreaked itself upon everything than the immense number of men on foreign led to a most comical campaign leave and of convalescents and against English and French words wounded wandering about at will. that had for convenience' sake become The soldiers in Berlin seem to have naturalized members of the German far less freedom. The military authorivocabulary. They were hooted out by ties there seem to go to the other the score, but before I left Berlin many extreme and the men are not only kept of them were, humorously enough, within the lazaret enclosures but are being quietly restored to the Father- forbidden to have any intercourse or land's lexicons. The German purists exchange words with the people passing sought in vain for a substitute for the in the street. In London the lack of word “sport," for instance. They had, protection from all the harpies that too, to their chagrin to confess that gather together to prey upon the they had no German equivalent for soldiers at such times as these just the word "gentleman," and the little takes my breath away. The military word "cakes,” which is everywhere in authorities in Berlin, recognizing the use as the German for "biscuits," peril from loose women that threatabsolutely floored the radical reform- ened their men, took the problem in ers of the Deutscher Sprachverein. A hand with characteristic energy at an prize was even offered to the inventor early stage of the War and published a of the best substitute for the offensive list of cafés, restaurants and picture term, and the competition brought shows that were absolutely forbidden forth all sorts of monstrous, poly- to men in uniform. Certain notorious sy labic Teutonisms, that only excited quarters of the town were quite closed laughter. Finally the wiseacres of the to soldiers and all questionable female League had to let the intruder remain, characters were mercilessly cleared but they disguised it as Keks, and away from the streets. England, too, I your Berliner may now, without a believe, is waking up to the gravity of qualm, once more ask for a Keks, this terrible social danger, and there which he comically uses as a singular. is a longing that some statesman may

arise with sufficient wisdom, will and energy to grapple with it. Our misfortune is that we so often get amateur statesmen, who are gifted with the art of locking the stable door after the horse has been stolen. We want some one who will not shirk thoroughgoing prophylactic measures. If the liberty of certain worthless persons seems to suffer in the process, what matter!

On the morning of November 6, 1914, at about 6 o'clock, while it was still pitch-dark, I was awakened by an ominous ring at the front door. A belted and revolvered policeman was standing on the mat. “Herr Professor,” he said, “my instructions are to arrest you and take you to the Stadtvogtei Prison.” I showed him into my study and gave him a big old Luther Bible to pass the time with while I was packing. It has occurred to me since that he might have preferred a cup of coffee and a roll. As I, together with this immaculately gloved and Kaiser-mustached individual, walked along the streets, carrying my heavy portmanteau, a group of hussies in a public-house doorway, evidently taking me for some breaker of the law, asked my escort, “What's the bloke been pinched for?”

At last I found myself in a large stuffy guardroom, full of the nondescript Continental crew that in the far-off, pre-War days went by the name of British subjects. I spent the morning alone in a cell of the prison and early in the afternoon we were all trudged through the streets carrying our luggage and bedding to the railway station, and entrained for Ruhleben, a bedraggled and motley crowd. I remember how unromantic and tiresome it all seemed to me.

On the way to the railway station an additional touch of the comical was given to this Falstaffian army of

ours. A little German Landsturm man, who had been ordered to join up that morning and who was rather late in reporting himself at his center, supposed that our procession was the one he ought to have been in and, in order to escape punishment for his tardy arrival, smuggled himself into our ragged lines. Once there, there was no escape for him, and he had willy-nilly to come with us to Ruhleben, where it took him till nightfall to prove that he had wrongfully assumed the privileges of a British subject. And in Ruhleben itself, what a hurlyburly! What curiosity as to where we were to live and what a rush for the few stables where camp beds with mattresses were provided, and what laughter, curses and disgust when many found that they had to sleep in horseboxes with merely a litter of loose straw on the concrete, or in crowded lofts on dirty and evil-smelling sacks of straw that had already been used. Next morning some had tales to tell of mice and rats that had been running over them in the night, but those in the horseboxes had the best of it. The names of the departed steeds still stood on the iron sliding doors, Morenga, Heather Bell, Montezuma, Water Witch and the rest of them, “each box guaranteed,” men joked, “to hold one horse or six Englishmen.” Some of the men brought in from more distant parts of Germany had on the way been subjected to all sorts of insults and indignities. Poor W., a Glasgow man of fifty-three years of age, was thrust, as a kind of Prussian joke, into a luggage van where trunks and boxes were jeeringly piled up around him till only his head and shoulders were free. In this plight he had to travel from Strassburg to Halle, where they released him bruised and fainting after a journey of many hours. During the long nights we heard his constant moan, “They'll

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