Vagabonding Through Changing GermanyFranck, Harry Alverson
History
Vagabonding Through Changing Germany
Franck, Harry Alverson
Germany -- Description and travel; Germany -- Social life and customs
The soil was not worth the cost of uncovering it and
the river Yssel must be left an outlet to the ocean, a viaduct sufficing
to carry the railway to the peninsula opposite.
It may have been the waving flags that turned the conversation to the
royal family. A gardener who had long worked for them scornfully branded
as canards the rumors in the outside world that the German consort was
not popular. The prince was quite democratic—royalty radiates democracy
nowadays the world over, apparently—and was so genuinely Dutch that he
would not speak German with any one who knew any other tongue. He spoke
most of the European ones himself, and in addition Tamil and Hindustani.
He took no part whatever in the government—unless he advised the Queen
unofficially in the privacy of their own chamber—but was interested
chiefly in the Boy Scout movement, in connection with which he hoped to
visit the United States after the war. They were a very loving couple,
quite as much so as if they were perfectly ordinary people.
By this time the short northern night had fallen. With two changes of
cars I rattled on into it and brought up at Oldenzaal on the frontier at
a late hour. The American lieutenant put up at the same hotel with me
and we discussed the pros and cons of my hopes of getting into Germany.
They were chiefly cons. The lieutenant was quite willing for me to make
use of his presence consistent with army ethics, and I retired with a
slightly rosier view of the situation.
In the morning this tint had wholly disappeared. I could not stir up a
spark of optimism anywhere in my system. Army life has a way of sapping
the springs of personal initiative. To say that I was 99 per cent.
convinced that I would be back in Oldenzaal before the day was over
would be an under-statement. I would have traded my chances of passing
the frontier for a Dutch cigar. I bought a ticket on the shuttle train
to the first German station in much the same spirit that a poker-player
throws his last dollar into a game that has been going against him since
the night before.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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