In the Prison City, Brussels, 1914-1918: A Personal NarrativeTwells, J. H. (Julia Helen Watts)
History
In the Prison City, Brussels, 1914-1918: A Personal Narrative
Twells, J. H. (Julia Helen Watts)
World War, 1914-1918 -- Belgium -- Brussels; World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives
“Really?” I replied; “evidently you think I am English!”
He smiled shamefacedly, and blurted naïvely: “Aren’t you?”
I coldly told him my nationality, and added: “But if I _were_ English
your boast would not trouble me. You are still a long way from Paris,
and even if you ever _should_ get there, you would not remain long.
And as for London—you might more easily get to heaven!”
They received this sally with confident laughter, and left the lift,
one repeating significantly, emphasizing the words with an upraised
finger: “You’ll see! You’ll see!”
As the German military element was increasing daily at the hotel,
all persons of other nationalities departed, save those obliged to
remain. We, the British nurses, and some few Belgians, unable to
return to their homes in other parts of Belgium, were consequently
in constant association with numerous high officials, who, in the
first pride of victory, discarded their war-raiment for brilliant
blue dress-uniforms, ornamented with gold or silver. They strutted
about with a domineering air of superiority which later became greatly
modified, but at that time was insufferable.
One evening, immediately after the fall of Reims, when the Belgian
spirit was more depressed than ever before, a dinner was held in
the public dining-room by a number of high-grade officers. They
were seated at a long table close to ours, all in gala attire, and
evidently jubilant over some new disaster to the Belgian forces—a
satisfaction which they appeared particularly anxious should be noted
by the Belgians present. But the latter, who hid their aching hearts
under lowered eyelids, appeared not to heed them. Outside, however,
there were many interested watchers. As the evening was warm, windows
had been left open, and at them gathered the idle street crowds,
with nothing, night or day, to divert their thoughts—no business, no
theatres, no cafés—and too anxious to remain in their homes.
No slight consideration for their helpless and ruined victims, looking
in on the joyous party, stayed the gay laughter and toasts of those at
that table! Triumph, which common decency should have impelled them to
indulge privately, was flagrantly flourished in the wan faces of men
who knew not how they were to feed their families in a week’s time, of
youths cast out of employment and unable to give their country the aid
they longed to give.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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