April 19, 1918, will ever remain a memorable date for me. I had just received a request to present myself at the Kommandantur, and a non-commissioned officer was waiting on the ground floor to conduct me to the office. What was the matter now? It had not infrequently happened that a prisoner, after being summoned to the Kommandantur, was never seen by us again. He had been summarily transferred to another prison. My present request, therefore, was not very reassuring. However, I could not hesitate to obey the order. As we were leaving the jail, my escort commenced a conversation in a perfectly casual manner.

“Can you guess why you have been summoned to the Kommandantur?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well, why are you called there?” he insisted.

“Because I am to be granted my liberty,” I hazarded.

“You are quite right,” he said. “But please, do not state that I told you this, for if it were known I had spoken I should be severely reprimanded, perhaps actually punished, for having communicated this news to you.”

At the Kommandantur, which I now visited for the first time, I was at once ushered into a hall and into the presence of Captain Wolfe, the officer who had been in the habit of visiting the jail from time to time in order to take depositions of prisoners. He appeared, as far as the jail was concerned, to be the “big boss” of the institution. That man left a very unenviable impression on the minds of all the British prisoners who passed through the jail. As for myself, I shall find it very hard to forgive him for having ignored the multiplication of requests I addressed to him during my three years of captivity.

As I approached his table he looked up, but he made no sign nor uttered a word until I politely bade him good morning. Then he condescended to speak.

“Good morning,” he replied. “I have asked that you be brought here in order that you may be informed that you are soon to be liberated.”

“When?” I asked.

“Next week.”

“What day?”

“Thursday.”

“Is this certain?” I ventured.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, quickly.

“I am asking you if this time I am really to be liberated?” I said.

“I have told you that your liberation is to be granted; for what reason do you ask now whether it is certain? Do you doubt my word?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied, “I recall the fact that two years ago you communicated to me at the jail news identical with the announcement you now make to me. Nevertheless, I am still your boarder.”

His eyes sought the ceiling vaguely, as one searching his conscience in order to ascertain if there were any reason for self-reproach. Then with a feeble smile he admitted that what I said was true. “Well, on this occasion,” he said, “you may rely upon what I tell you.”

The fact was, I was to be exchanged for a German prisoner in England. The terms of the exchange had been fixed and it was to take place immediately. I had nothing to add, except to express my satisfaction at being, at last, free to leave Germany.

In reply to a question I put to him, he told me that my status of a member of Parliament and a former Minister in the Canadian Government had been responsible for my long detention. He further said that all the documents, papers, catalogues, books, correspondence–everything, in fact, which would be likely to be of any service to me after my liberation, and which I might wish to take with me, would first have to be submitted to the censors in Berlin.

Consequently on returning to the jail, I started to make a selection among the papers and books I had collected and the letters I had received in the course of my captivity. I made up a fairly large-sized parcel of them and sent the package at once to the censor. Everything was duly censored, placed in envelopes, carefully sealed and initialed, and returned to me at the jail.

This all took place on Saturday. On the following Monday, First-Lieutenant Block, commanding officer at the jail, hurriedly came to my cell, saying: “I have good news for you. The German Government, through me, offers to allow you to pass through Belgium, on your way to Holland, in order that you may have the opportunity and pleasure of visiting your children near Antwerp. They are now awaiting an answer from you. Do you accept?”

“My answer will be short,” I said. “I accept with thanks.”

Three years had elapsed since I left Capellen. During that long time I had not been allowed to receive one visit from my daughter or the children of my wife, who had remained at Capellen.

“This will take a few days,” said the officer, “because the several military posts which you will pass, in Belgium, will have to be notified.”

“I have no objection to wait one, two or three weeks if I may have the precious privilege of seeing my children again before going to England,” I said.

“I will communicate your answer at once to the department of Foreign Affairs,” the officer then remarked.

Three days later, the same officer informed me that he had been chosen to accompany me to Brussels and thence to the frontier of Holland. He appeared particularly happy in anticipation of fulfilling this duty. As to myself, I had no objection to make, as this officer had been in contact with me for more than two years, and it would be preferable to travel with some one with whom I was familiar. Moreover, First-Lieut. Block had united his efforts with my own when I solicited permission to go to Belgium during the long illness of my deceased wife.

I had waited through one week, and then another, when the officer–always the same–arrived one day with a gloomy countenance which reflected bad news for me.

“Bad news?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he said; “bad news, surely.”

“I know what it is,” I said. “They refuse to let me pass through Belgium.”

“You have said it.”

I could not repress a movement of impatience and annoyance.

“How is it possible that such a thing can happen?” I asked. “Didn’t you inform me two weeks ago that the German Government had already decided to let me pass through the occupied territory so that I might go and see my children?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then what authority is it that is so highly situated that it can override a decision taken by the Government?”

“It is the military authority!”

“Well,” I said, rather dryly, “when shall we start for Holland?”

“As soon as you are ready.”

“Then, we will leave this evening or to-morrow. The sooner the better, now,” I told him.

Our departure was accordingly arranged to take place on Friday night, May 9.