Sixteen Months in Four German Prisons: Wesel, Sennelager, Klingelputz, RuhlebenTalbot, Frederick Arthur Ambrose
History
Sixteen Months in Four German Prisons: Wesel, Sennelager, Klingelputz, Ruhleben
Talbot, Frederick Arthur Ambrose
World War, 1914-1918 -- Prisoners and prisons
Now my heart nearly jumped out of my body. The chairman, picking up the
papers which had been taken from my pocket, withdrew a little book. It
was my diary, which was full of notes. The moment I saw its familiar
cover I cursed the inspiration which had prompted me to keep a diary. I
knew what it contained and I knew the cryptic notes therein would bring
about further explosions and protestations. I was not disappointed.
Opening the little book the Chairman enquired innocently:
"What do you mean by things being 'lively' in Berlin?"
"It is a British expression," I retorted, my brain working rapidly to
advance a conclusive reply as I recalled the phrase which I had jotted
down. "We term things 'lively' when say, as in my case, one is first
thrown out of a cab by a officer and shortly afterwards is flung out of
a restaurant!"
"Rather an unusual phrase to use when one recalls the political
situation which prevailed in the capital last Sunday, is it not?"
"Possibly from the German point of view, in the light of events."
"Then you had an enlightening chat with an officer? What was it all
about? How did you open conversation with him?"
"In the usual British manner. We just chatted about things in general."
"Especially of the war between Germany and England?"
"No! Because we were not at war!"
"But the officer advised you to return home! Why?"
"Because I could not get through to Warsaw!"
Other incidents of a spirited character raged about other phrases in the
little book, but I was on the alert. The Chairman evidently considered
me to be a match for him in these wrangles because he speedily put the
diary down.
During the proceedings the Chairman made one frantic endeavour to trap
me, and to prove that I was more fully conversant with the language, as
he confidently believed, than I felt disposed to concede. Something was
being read over to me by the Clerk upon which my thoughts were
concentrated. Suddenly the Chairman roared out a terrifying word in the
vernacular. I never moved a hair. I behaved just as if the Chairman had
merely sneezed. My imperturbability appeared to convince him that I
really did not understand German, because no further reference was made
to the fact. Subsequently my interpreter told me that it was fortunate I
did not understand German or I would certainly have retorted to the
Chairman's sudden interjection. I should not have been human had I not
done so. He refused to tell me what the word was or what it meant, so I
was never a whit the wiser.
At last I was told the proceedings with reference to myself were closed.
I had been on the rack for several hours, and when the gate of my cell
clicked upon me for the last time that eventful evening the morning
hours were well advanced. As my interpreter left me to go to his cell I
enquired wearily, though with a trace of anxiety,
"When shall I know the result?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Perhaps to-morrow. Who knows?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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