“A man’s house is his castle” worth fighting for—Breakfast in a Belgian hotel—Groups of the conquerors—“News” in Belgium—Companionship at mass—Business at a standstill—A Belgian bread line—Workers and no work—Methods of relief distribution—German surveillance—Dinner at the American legation—“When would the Allies come?”

Christmas in Belgium with the bayonet and the wolf at the door taught one to value Christmas at home for more than its gifts and the cheer of the fireside. It taught him what it meant to belong to a free people and how precious is that old England saying that a man’s house is his castle, which was the inception of so much in our lives that we accept as a commonplace. If such a commonplace can be made secure only by fighting, then it is best to fight. At any time a foreign soldier might enter the house of a Belgian and take him away for trial before a military court.

Breakfast in the same restaurant as before the city’s fall! Again the big grapes which are a luxury of the rich man’s table or an extravagance for a sick friend with us! The hothouses still grew them. What else was there for the hothouses to do, though the export of their products was impossible? A shortage of the long, white-leafed chicory that we call endive in New York restaurants! There were piles of it in the Brussels market and on the hucksters’ carts; nothing so cheap. One might have excellent steaks and roasts and delicious veal; for the heifers were being butchered, as the Germans had taken all fodder. But the bread was the Commission’s brown, which every one had to eat. Belgium, growing quality on scanty acres with intensive farming, had food luxuries but not the staff of life.

One looked out of the windows on to the square which four months before he had seen crowded with people bedecked with the Allies’ colours and eagerly buying the latest editions containing the communiquÉs of hollow optimism. No flag in sight now except a German flag flying over the station! But small revenges may be enjoyed. A German soldier tried to jump on the tail of a cart driven by a Belgian; but the Belgian whipped up his horse and the German fell off onto the pavement, while the cart sped around a corner.

Out of the station came a score of German soldiers returning from the trenches, on their way to barracks to regain strength so that they could bear the ordeal of standing in icy water again. They were not the kind exhibited on press tours to illustrate the “vigour of our indomitable army.” Eyelids drooped over hollow eye-sockets; sore, numbed feet moved like feet which are asleep in their vain effort to keep step. Sensitiveness to surroundings, almost to existence, seemed to have been lost.

One was a corporal, young, tall, and full-bearded. He might have been handsome if he had not been so haggard. He gave the lead to the others; he seemed to know where they were going, and they shuffled on after him in dogged painfulness. Four months ago that corporal, with the spring of the energy of youth when the war was young, was perhaps in the green column that went through the streets of Brussels in the thunderous beat of their regular tread on the way to Paris. The group was an object lesson in how much the victor must suffer in war in order to make his victim suffer.

Some officers were at breakfast, too. Mostly they were reservists; mostly bespectacled, with middle age swelling their girth and hollowing their chests, but sturdy enough to apply the regulations made for conduct of the conquered. While stronger men were under shell-fire at the front, they were under the fire of Belgian hate as relentless as their own hate of England. You saw them always in the good restaurants, but never in the company of Belgians, these ostracised rulers. In four months they had made no friends; at least, no friends who would appear with them in public. A few thousand guards in Belgium in the companionship of conquest and seven million Belgians in the companionship of a common helplessness! Bayonets may make a man silent, but they cannot stop his thinking.

At the breakfast table on that Christmas morning in London, Paris, or Berlin the patriot could find the kind of news that he liked. His racial and national predilections and animosities were solaced. If there were good news it was “played up”; if there were bad news, it was not published, or it was explained. L’Écho Belge and L’IndÉpendence Belge, and all the Brussels papers were either out of business or being issued as single sheets in Holland and England.

The Belgian, keenest of all the peoples at war for news, having less occupation to keep his mind off the war, must read the newspapers established under German auspices, which fed him with the pabulum that German chefs provided, reflective of the stumbling degeneracy of England, French weariness of the war, Russian clumsiness, and the invincibility of Germany. If an Englishman had to read German, or a German English, newspapers every morning he might have understood how the Belgian felt.

Those who had sons or fathers or husbands in the Belgian army could not send or receive letters, let alone presents. Families scattered in different parts of Belgium could not hold reunions. But at mass I saw a Belgian standard in the centre of the church. That flag was proscribed, but the priests knew it was safe in that sacred place and the worshippers might feast their eyes on it as they said their aves.

A Bavarian soldier came in softly and stood a little apart from others, many in mourning, at the rear, a man who was of the same faith as the Belgians and who crossed himself with the others in the house of brotherly love. He would go outside to obey orders; and the others to nurse their hate of him and his race. This private in his faded green, bowing his head before that flag in the shadows of the nave, was war-sick, as most soldiers were; and the Belgians were heartsick. They had the one solace in common. But if you had suggested to him to give up Belgium, his answer would have been that of the other Germans: “Not after all we have suffered to take it!” Christians have a peculiar way of applying Christianity. Yet if it were not for Christianity and that infernal thing called the world’s opinion, which did not exist in the days of CÆsar and the Belgii, the Belgians might have been worse off than they were. More of them might have been dead. When they were saying, “Give us this day our daily bread” they were thinking, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” if ever their turn came.

A satirist might have repeated the apocryphal naÏvetÉ of Marie Antoinette, who asked why the people wanted bread when they could buy such nice cakes for a sou. For all the patisseries were open. Brussels is famous for its French pastry. With a store of preserves, why shouldn’t the bakeshops go on making tarts with heavy crusts of the brown flour, when war had not robbed the bakers of their art? It gave work to them; it helped the shops to keep open and make a show of normality. But I noticed that they were doing little business. Stocks were small and bravely displayed. Only the rich could afford such luxuries, which in ordinary times were what ice cream cones are to us. Even the jewellery shops were open, with diamond rings flashing in the windows.

“You must pay rent; you don’t want to discharge your employees,” said a jeweller. “There is no place to go except your shop. If you closed it would look as if you were afraid of the Germans. It would make you blue and the people in the street blue. One tries to go through the motions of normal existence, anyway. But, of course, you don’t sell anything. This week I have repaired a locket which carried the portrait of a soldier at the front and I’ve put a mainspring in a watch. I’ll warrant that is more than some of my competitors have done.”

Swing around the circle in Brussels of a winter’s morning and look at the only crowds that the Germans allow to gather, and any doubt that Belgium would have gone hungry if she had not received provisions from the outside was dispelled. Whenever I think of a bread line again I shall see the faces of a Belgian bread line. They blot out the memory of those at home, where men are free to go and come; where war has not robbed the thrifty of food.

It was fitting that the great central soup kitchen should be established in the central express office of the city. For in Belgium these days there is no express business except in German troops to the front and wounded to the rear. The despatch of parcels is stopped, no less than the other channels of trade, in a country where trade was so rife, a country that lived by trade. On the stone floor, where once packages were arranged for forwarding to the towns whose names are on the walls, were many great cauldrons in clusters of three, to economise space and fuel.

“We don’t lack cooks,” said a chef, who had been in a leading hotel. “So many of us are out of work. Our society of hotel and restaurant keepers took charge. We know the practical side of the business. I suppose you have the same kind of a society in New York and would turn to it for help if the Germans occupied New York.”

He gave me a printed report in which I read, for example, that “M. Arndt, professor of the École Normale, had been good enough to take charge of accounts,” and “M. Catteau had been specially appointed to look after the distribution of bread.”

Most appetising that soup prepared under direction of the best chefs in the city. The meat and green vegetables in it were Belgian and the peas American. Steaming hot in big cans it was sent to the communal centres, where lines of people with pots, pitchers, and pails waited to receive their daily allowance. A democracy was in that bread line such as I have never seen anywhere except at San Francisco after the earthquake. Each person had a blue or a yellow ticket, with numbers to be punched, like a commuter. The blue tickets were for those who had proved to the communal authorities that they could not pay; the yellow for those who paid five centimes for each person served. A flutter of blue and yellow tickets all over Belgium, and in return life! With each serving of soup went a loaf of the American brown bread. The faces in the line were not those of people starving—they had been saved from starvation. There was none of the emaciation which pictures of famine in the Orient have made familiar; but they were pinched faces, bloodless faces, the faces of people on short rations.

To the Belgian bread is not only the staff of life; it is the legs. At home we think of bread as something that goes with the rest of the meal; to the poorer classes of Belgians the rest of the meal is something that goes with bread. To you and me food has meant the payment of money to the baker and the butcher and the grocer, or the hotelkeeper. You get your money by work or from investments. What if there were no bread to be had for work or money? Sitting on a mountain of gold in the desert of Sahara would not quench thirst.

Three hundred grams, a minimum calculation—about half what the British soldier gets—was the ration. That small boy sent by his mother got five loaves; his ticket called for an allowance for a family of five. An old woman got one loaf, for she was alone in the world. Each one as he hurried by had a personal story of what war had meant to him. They answered your questions frankly, gladly, with the Belgian cheerfulness which was amazing considering the circumstances. A tall, distinguished-looking man was an artist.

“No work for artists these days,” he said.

No work in a community of workers where every link of the chain of economic life had been broken. No work for the next man, a chauffeur, or the next, a brass worker; the next, a teamster; the next, a bank clerk; the next, a doorkeeper of a Government office; while the wives of those who still had work were buying in the only market they had. But the husbands of some were not at home. Each answer about the absent one had an appeal that nothing can picture better than the simple words or the looks that accompanied the words.

“The last I heard of my husband he was fighting at Dixmude—two months ago.”

“Mine is wounded, somewhere in France.”

“Mine was with the army, too. I don’t know whether he is alive or dead. I have not heard since Brussels was taken. He cannot get my letters and I cannot get his.”

“Mine was killed at LiÉge, but we have a son.”

So you out in Nebraska who gave a handful of wheat might know that said handful of wheat reached its destination in an empty stomach. If you sent a suit of clothes or a cap or a pair of socks, come along to the skating-rink, where ice polo was played and matches and carnivals were held in better days, and look on at the boxes, packed tight with gifts of every manner of thing that men and women and children wear except silk hats, which are being opened and sorted and distributed into hastily constructed cribs and compartments. A Belgian woman whose father was one of Belgium’s leading lawyers—her husband was at the front—was the busy head of this organisation, because, as she said, the busier she was the more it “keeps my mind off—” and she did not finish the sentence. How many times I heard that “keeps my mind off—” a sentence that was the more telling for not being finished. She and some other women began sewing and patching and collecting garments; “but our business grew so fast”—the business of relief is the one kind in Belgium that does grow these days—“that now we have hundreds of helpers. I begin to feel that I am what you would call in America a captainess of industry.”

Some of the good mothers in America were a little too thoughtful in their kindness. An odour in a box that had evidently travelled across the Atlantic close to the ship’s boilers was traced to the pocket of a boy’s suit, which contained the hardly distinguishable remains of a ham sandwich, meant to be ready to hand for the hungry Belgian boy who got that suit. Broken pots of jam were quite frequent. But no matter. Soap and water and Belgian industry saved the suit, if not the sandwich. Sweaters and underclothes and overcoats almost new and shiny, old frock coats and trousers with holes in seat and knees might represent equal sacrifice on the part of some American three thousand miles away, and all were welcome. Needle-women were given work cutting up the worn-outs of grown-ups and making them over into astonishingly good suits or dresses for youngsters.

“We’ve really turned the rink into a kind of department store,” said the lady. “Come into our boot department. We had some leather left in Belgium that the Germans did not requisition, so we bought it and that gave more Belgians work in the shoe factories. Work, you see, is what we want to keep our minds off—”

Blue and yellow tickets here, too! Boots for children and thick-set working women and watery-eyed old men! And each was required to leave behind the pair he was wearing.

“Sometimes we can patch up the cast-offs, which means work for the cobblers,” said the captainess of industry. “And who are our clerks? Why, the people who put on the skates for the patrons of the rink, of course!”

One could write volumes on this systematic relief work, the businesslike industry of succouring Belgium by the businesslike Belgians, with American help. Certainly one cannot leave out those old men stragglers from Louvain and Bruges and Ghent—venerable children with no offspring to give them paternal care—who took their turn in getting bread, which they soaked thoroughly in their soup for reasons that would be no military secret, not even in the military zone. On Christmas Day an American, himself a smoker, thinking what class of children he could make happiest on a limited purse, remembered the ring around the stove and bought a basket of cheap briar pipes and tobacco. By Christmas night some toothless gums were sore, but a beatific smile of satiation played in white beards.

Nor can one leave out the very young babies at home, who get their milk if grown people don’t, and the older babies beyond milk but not yet old enough for bread and meat, whose mothers return from the bread line to bring their children to another line, where they got portions of a sirupy mixture which those who know say is the right provender. On such occasions men are quite helpless. They can only look on with a frog in the throat at pale, improperly nourished mothers with bundles of potential manhood and womanhood in their arms. For this was woman’s work for woman. Belgian women of every class joined in it: the competent wife of a workman, or the wife of a millionaire who had to walk like everybody else now that her automobile was requisitioned by the army.

Pop-eyed children, ruddy-cheeked, aggressive children, pinched-faced children, kept warm by sweaters that some American or English children spared, happy in that they did not know what their elders knew! Not the danger of physical starvation so much as the actual presence of mental starvation was the thing that got on our nerves in a land where the sun is seldom seen in winter and rainy days are the rule. It was bad enough in the “zone of occupation,” so called, a line running from Antwerp past Brussels to Mons. One could guess what it was like in the military zone to the westward, where only an occasional American relief representative might go.

This is not saying that the Germans were stricter than necessary, if we excuse the exasperation of their militarism, in order to prevent information from passing out when a multitude of Belgians would have risked their lives gladly to help the Allies. One spy bringing accurate information might cost the German army thousands of casualties; perhaps decide the fate of a campaign. They saw the Belgians as enemies. They were fighting to take the lives of their enemies and save their own lives, which made it tough for them and for the French and the British—tough all round, but very particularly tough for Belgians.

It was good for a vagrant American to dine at the American Legation, where Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock were far, very far, from the days in Toledo, Ohio, where he was mayor. Some said that the place of the Minister to Belgium was at Havre, where the Belgian Government had its offices; but neither Whitlock nor the Belgian people thought so, nor the German Government, of late, since they had realised his prestige with the Belgians and how they would listen to him in any crisis when their passions might break the bonds of wisdom. Hugh Gibson, being the omnipresent Secretary of Legation in four languages, naturally was also present. We recalled dining together in Honduras, when he was in the thick of vexations.

Trouble accommodatingly waits for him wherever he goes, because he has a gift for taking care of trouble, in the ascendency of a cheerful spirit and much knowledge of international law. His present for the Minister who daily received stacks of letters from all sources asking the impossible, as well as from Americans who wanted to be sure that the food they gave was not being purloined by the Germans, was a rubber stamp, “Blame-it-all—there’s-a-state-of-war-in-Belgium!” which he suggested might save typewriting—a recommendation which the Minister refused to accept, not to Gibson’s surprise.

On that Christmas afternoon and evening, the people promenaded the streets as usual. You might have thought it a characteristic Christmas afternoon or evening except for the Landsturm patrols. But there was an absence of the old gaiety, and they were moving as if from habit and moving was all there was to do.

They had heard the sound of the guns at Dixmude the night before. Didn’t the sound seem a little nearer? No. The wind from that direction was stronger. When? When would the Allies come?