A few weeks after entering prison I was called into the office on the ground floor, where I found myself face to face with a person entirely unknown to me.

“I am Mr. Wassermann, manager of the German Bank,” said this visitor, in introducing himself. “Are you Mr. Beland?”

“Yes, sir; I am,” I replied.

“Then be seated,” he continued. “The day before yesterday I received a letter from one of my fellow-countrymen who is resident in Toronto. He informs me that he has learned from the Canadian newspapers that you are interned here, and he asks me to interest myself on your behalf. My friend adds that he, himself, has not received the slightest annoyance from the Canadian Government. Will you tell me if there is anything I can do for you?”

“You could, no doubt, obtain for me my freedom,” I told him.

“I would like to do it,” he answered, “and I will do all that I can in order to be useful to you, but I really do not know to what extent I may succeed. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Nothing that I know of.”

“Is your cell comfortable?”

“I occupy a cell in company with three others.”

“Would it be more agreeable to you if you were assigned to a cell exclusively your own?”

“It would, indeed,” I said, “for then I could work with more comfort.”

Mr. Wassermann then left me, and a few days after our interview I was removed into a cell reserved for myself alone on the fifth or top floor of the prison. Here the atmosphere was purer than in the other cell, as there was better ventilation. It was brighter, and I had a wider outlook of the sky. I occupied this cell for three years.

The prison was heated by a hot-water system, which was shut off each day at about two o’clock in the afternoon, so that in the evening the atmosphere generally was very cold, so cold in fact, that frequently I would have to go to bed as early as seven o’clock, directly the cells were locked, in order to keep myself warm.

We were allowed to write two letters and four postal cards each month. This was a rule which applied to all prisoners in Germany, without distinction. A letter addressed to a foreign country was detained for a period of ten days, and all correspondence sent by us or directed to us was minutely censored, detention of the letters and censure of the letters being practised as a “military measure.” During the whole period of my imprisonment I never received one single copy of a Canadian newspaper, although I know now that quite a number were from time to time addressed to me.

Courses of instruction in French, English, and German were given daily at the jail, but only on very rare occasions were there any religious services, either Protestant or Catholic. I recall only two or three occasions during the whole of my captivity on which I had the privilege of attending chapel, which was situated in another section of the prison.

German newspapers of all shades of political thought were received in the jail, whether pan-German, Liberal, Conservative or Socialistic in their tendencies. But we were not allowed to read either English or French newspapers, though we knew the big dailies of Paris and London were available at the principal news stands in Berlin. This does not mean, however, that I did not get a glimpse at both English and French newspapers during my captivity. It sometimes happened that one or other of the incoming prisoners had either a London or Paris newspaper concealed in his pockets. There were other means also through which we were able from time to time to obtain newspapers from the allied countries.

Christmas is always celebrated with great pomp in Berlin. On Christmas Eve the prisoners enjoyed a small celebration amongst themselves. There was a Christmas tree, and two or three officers of the Kommandantur, accompanied by a few ladies, came and distributed gifts, which were, for the most part, of the nature of provisions for the most needy of the prisoners.

On Christmas Eve, 1915, enough food was distributed to give each prisoner a good meal. In 1916, when food had become scarce, there was no distribution of provisions, but each prisoner received as a gift an article of underwear or a new pair of socks. In 1917, there was a Christmas tree, but no gifts of any kind. The economic situation in the interior of Germany had become such that neither food nor clothing were available for the prisoners.

In the course of one of my walks in the park during the last year of my imprisonment, I saw the then idol of the German people–the great General Hindenburg. Accompanied by an officer, he was driving in an automobile along the street which borders the Tiergarten. My escort and I were on the sidewalk when the famous general passed. I had a distinct view of his features. When we got back to the jail my companion announced with great gusto to his fellow-officers that he had seen General Hindenburg. As they received his announcement with incredulity, I was called upon to corroborate the statement of my escort, and then they looked upon me with actual envy. According to their way of thinking, I was one of the luckiest men on earth! The mere sight of so great a general, they thought, should be regarded as a red-letter day in a man’s life history! Such was their veneration, respect, and admiration for the chief of staff. Bismarck in all his glory was never arrayed in such a halo of glory as Hindenburg wore in the mind’s-eye of the Germans of that day.

The German people are not demonstrative. They are taciturn and dreamy. One day I was on the station platform waiting for the train to take me and my guard to the park. The noon editions of the newspapers were on sale and were being bought with avidity. They contained some sensational story or another. It was, according to the best of my memory, the report of the Austro-German offensive directed against the Italians in November, 1917. The advance on the enemy and the capture of forty thousand prisoners were announced in scare headings.

After glancing over the news myself, I turned to observe the attitude of the readers around me. I continued my observations as the train moved out of the station, and I did not notice one smile among the whole crowd of Germans; nor was there any apparent desire on the part of any man to discuss the events with his neighbor. To them the news appeared to be one of the most natural events in the world. I asked myself: Have these people commenced to realize that all these victories do not bring the war any nearer to the end they desire? Or, has their feeling of enthusiasm become deadened by three years of unrelenting fight? I leave it to the reader to appreciate now, in the light of subsequent events.

The first American citizen interned in the Stadtvogtei was an unhealthy-looking man whose name I now forget. It was during the absence of Mr. Gerard, the United States Ambassador, in the month of October, 1916, I believe. This man claimed that he never would have been interned if Mr. Gerard had been in Berlin. He often expressed to us fears as to the security of Mr. Gerard. He was under the impression that Germany desired his disappearance, and that on his return to Germany the United States Ambassador ran a great danger of being sent to the bottom of the sea. He was convinced that Mr. Gerard was extremely hated in Berlin and was considered the enemy of Germany’s interests.

It may not be out of place to mention here that at one time there was quite a controversy in the German newspapers concerning Mrs. Gerard. Certain sheets had accused Mrs. Gerard of lack of good manners, and this to the extent of having on one occasion pinned the Iron Cross to the collar of her pet dog and to have promenaded the streets of Berlin with the animal thus “dressed up.” The alleged incident created such a stir that the semi-official newspaper “Le Gazette de l’Allemagne du Nord” published an editorial on the subject. It was therein stated that the allegations against Mrs. Gerard were false and that Mr. and Mrs. Gerard had conducted themselves always in a manner absolutely above reproach.

Very seldom a day passed without one of the non-commissioned officers submitting this question to the British prisoners, “When shall we have peace?” The answer was invariably the same: “We did not know.” How could we? However, the question gave the Prussians an excuse for prolonging a conversation, during which we would be told that Germany wished for peace, but that the obstacle was England. On more than one occasion several among us–notably a Belgian named Dumont, who never minced his words–retorted: “But why did you start the war?” On one occasion a non-commissioned officer, to whom this question was directly put, insisted that Germany never wished nor planned the war, neither did she start it.

“You are quite right; you are a thousand times right as to starting it,” cried Dumont, giving expression to his anti-German sentiments, “it was not Germany that started the war. We, the Belgians, started it!!!”

The remark was greeted with general laughter, and the non-commissioned officer, in confusion, turned on his heels and left us.