Among the interesting prisoners I knew in the Stadtvogtei during my long captivity there are several who deserve special mention. Early in 1916 there were frequently heard proceeding from a section of the jail near the division where I was confined the tones of soft music. For a time we did not know whether the music came from the outside or the inside of the building. Conjectures were in order. Some of my companions believed the music was played by a talented violinist who was held prisoner as we were. Others ventured the opinion that the sweet strains emanated from a house in the immediate neighborhood of the prison. One day the Sergeant-Major informed me during his tour of inspection that I was to be permitted to visit a French prisoner confined in an adjoining division of the jail. He said the prisoner was known as Professor Henri Marteau. The name, I at once recalled, was that of a celebrated French musician whom I heard during his visit to Canada some twenty years ago.

“Whenever you feel inclined to call on the Professor,” the Sergeant-Major said, “I will accompany you to his cell; but I have to inform you that while you are making your call the door of the cell will be locked upon you, as the Professor is condemned to solitary confinement. It is to be permitted him to return your call, and if he chooses to do so, your door will likewise be locked while you are together.”

Not unnaturally, I was very anxious to meet this distinguished Frenchman and on the following day I asked the Sergeant-Major if he would be kind enough to conduct me to his cell. I found the Professor one of the most charming and interesting men one could wish to meet. He was then about forty-five years of age, and manifestly an artist to his finger-tips. This is the story he told to me:

At the outbreak of the war he was practising as a professor of the violin at the Berlin Conservatory of Music, and as a French subject, he was ordered interned at Holzminden, in the internment camp designated for civilians of French nationality. A few months later, by the express order of the Emperor, he was granted his liberty in Berlin. Mr. Marteau had married an Alsatian lady, whose sympathies, like those of so many of the people of her Province, were known to be entirely with France. The professor and his wife were admitted to the best society of Berlin, and shortly after Bulgaria had entered the war, Madame Marteau, at a society gathering, expressed the sense of her displeasure at Bulgaria’s stand. Her words were reported to the military authorities, and a few days afterwards two detectives called at the professor’s residence with an order that he and his wife were to be interned. Madame Marteau was taken to an internment camp reserved for women, and the professor was removed to the Stadtvogtei.

“But, my dear sir, why were you interned–you, a professor of the Berlin Conservatory of Music?” I asked him.

“Merely because of my wife’s remarks,” he answered with a delicate smile in which it was impossible to detect the slightest shadow of reproach.

The day following our interview the professor returned my call. He was, of course, accompanied to my cell by a non-commissioned officer, who, according to instructions, locked us in the room together. Mr. Marteau brought with him his marvelous instrument upon which he had been granted the privilege to play during his imprisonment. It was his music which had charmed our ears on previous days.

On this occasion he was kind enough to entertain me with several selections from Bach and Gounod. The Poles, as is well known, have a passion for music, as, indeed, have the Russians, and they flocked to the windows and were charmed by the enchanting music. Every selection was heartily applauded. The entertainment caused a pleasant sensation in the prison, and when the professor visited me again the next day, there was the same enthusiastic audience to enjoy his masterly performance.

Suddenly it was interrupted by the appearance of the Sergeant-Major at the door of my cell. Ignoring the professor’s courteous bow, he cried in a harsh voice: “This cannot be allowed; you have no permission to play here.” The officer left as abruptly as he came, and the door was closed with a bang.

I must be excused if I do not report the remarks that were made at the ill-mannered behavior towards Professor Marteau, who was as refined as he was distinguished.

This worthy man was the father of two charming daughters, aged four and five years respectively, but in spite of his requests–repeated over and over again during his three months’ confinement in the Stadtvogtei–for the privilege of receiving visits from his children and for permission that they might call to see their mother, the Kommandantur categorically refused to grant the petition.

A few months afterwards Professor Marteau was granted provisional liberty. He was permitted to leave the jail and go and reside in the village of Mecklembourg, where he had to report himself daily at the municipal hall; but his movements were confined to the radius of the village boundaries.

During our intercourse, I frequently expressed the hope that, after the termination of the war, we might have the pleasure of welcoming him on a return visit to Canada and the United States. I told him that he might be assured of the greatest triumph an artist of his outstanding talent could hope for.

Two other prisoners, both equally interesting, I had for companions–one for three months, and the other for five months. They were Messrs. Kluss and Borchard, socialistic members of the Reichstag. I did not get so well acquainted with Mr. Borchard as with Mr. Kluss; in the first place, because we were not together for so long, and secondly, because he was in solitary confinement for part of the time. However, I retain very pleasant memories of Mr. Borchard, and I have been able to keep the copy he gave to me of a famous letter he addressed to the German Emperor. It was a masterpiece. In it he resumed all that a man of his talent and political faith could urge against the autocratic system of Germany. I do not know, of course, whether or not it was that letter which resulted in his liberation from prison.

With regard to Mr. Kluss, he remained in jail for what seemed a very long time. He was invariably friendly with every prisoner. He visited one cell after another and talked with every occupant. And his conversation was most interesting. He was a man of wide learning–a scholar, in fact. Often we discussed together the different political institutions of Germany. One incident in which he played an important part during his captivity is worthy of mention. Once a year the general commanding officer of Berlin made a visit of inspection at the jail. General Von Boehm, about seventy years of age, and deaf as a post, was the commanding officer at this time. Well, one fine morning this high officer, surrounded by his myrmidons–one colonel, two majors, two captains, and a number of lieutenants–arrived at the jail. The clanking of their swords and spurs preceded them as they climbed the stairs and walked along the corridors. At each cell door the General would halt and ask each prisoner:

“Have you any complaint to make?”

When the question was addressed to me, I replied: “I submit I have just reason to complain, as a physician, of being interned, and as such I shall not cease from claiming my liberation.”

“Very well,” replied the General, and he continued his tour of inspection, repeating the one question at each cell. The majority of the prisoners made no reply, but when several of them answered: “Yes, I have a complaint to make,” the General said, “Very well then; go down into the yard.”

By the time he had concluded the inspection some twelve prisoners had answered the stereotyped question in the affirmative, and they were assembled in the yard.

Amongst them was the Socialist Deputy Kluss. The General and his camarilla appeared in due course and the prisoners were invited to give voice to their complaints. Seemingly frightened, they all remained silent with the exception of Mr. Kluss. He stepped into the centre of the yard and there commenced to make a formidable arraignment of the German military authorities and the arbitrary regulations of which he said he was one of the victims. Kluss knew very well that General Von Boehm was deaf, and this gave him just reason to raise his voice. Thus we were all able to hear a veritable platform oration pronounced in a voice vibrant and penetrating. One may imagine how amused we prisoners were by this incident. The General went through the motions of listening to the whole discourse; he pretended to hear it, and would occasionally nod his head as though he quite approved of what was being said.

At one stage of his speech, Mr. Kluss likened the methods of the German military authorities as they were directed against him to the worst barbarities of the Middle Ages. One of the officers accompanying the General endeavored to silence the speaker but it was of no avail. Nothing could stem the flow of the man’s eloquence!

When the address was ended, General von Boehm, who evidently had not heard a single word, merely remarked, “Yes, very well,” and was about to move away when Mr. Kluss obstructed his path and cried out: “What is the answer, General–give me an answer, please.”

The General, realizing that he was being addressed again, moved to one side and repeated, “Yes, quite so; very well; very well,” and this time passed on. We did not see him again.

Kluss received the congratulations of the German subjects who were with us and who believed they were the victims of a vicious system and a gross injustice on the part of their Government.

Incidentally, I may say that Kluss was a fervent admirer of Liebknecht.