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SHORT RATIONS 
 
A German Mother, Who Has Given Her Seven Sons to the War. 
 She and Her Three Grandchildren Were Trying to Live on 
 Potatoes-all They Had. 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 AN AMERICAN WOMAN IN 
 GERM4NY, 1915 . . . 1916 
 
 BY 
 
 MADELEINE ZABRISKIE DOTY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "SOCIETY'S MISFITS" 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH 
 PHOTOGRAPHS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1917 
 
Copyright, 1917, by 
 The Century Co. 
 
 Published, March, 1917 
 
 MAR 14 1917 
 
 ©CI.A455887 
 
 
TO 
 MY FATHER 
 
 WHO NEVER HELD ME BACK 
 BUT EVER ENCOURAGED 
 ME IN MY ADVENTURES 
 
PREFACE 
 
 This book is a journal of my experiences in 
 warring Europe. I have tried to set down sim- 
 ply and honestly what I saw. It is the story of 
 what happens at home when men go to war. It 
 has been difficult to find a title that would cover 
 such a range. But everywhere I traveled one 
 fact obtruded itself. When the battle rages all 
 forces are concentrated on destroying; man has 
 no time to create. The doctrine of social wel- 
 fare is temporarily extinguished. No thought 
 can be given to the hungry, to the convict, to 
 social evils, to education, to understanding the 
 heart of a child. 
 
 These divine causes are pushed aside. The 
 country goes spiritually, as well as materially, 
 bankrupt. There is a shortage all along the 
 line. It is in this sense that I use the title 
 " Short Rations." 
 
 While the men at the front slaughter one an- 
 other, at home the mothers and children, the 
 sick, the aged, the prisoners, are starved spirit- 
 ually, intellectually, and physically. Life be- 
 
 xi 
 
xii PREFACE 
 
 comes a fight for existence, a struggle for one's 
 self and not for humanity. 
 
 Through infinite suffering man has broken 
 away from the old ideal which was " Concentrate 
 on self and be a great person." He has come to 
 see that a truer and finer ideal is " Forget self 
 and give to humanity." Nations must learn this 
 truth also ; not my country first, what can it grab, 
 but what can it give. When that idealism is ac- 
 cepted, wars will cease. " Love thy neighbor as 
 thyself." It is an old doctrine, new only when 
 applied by one nation to another. 
 
 And to that nation which has sinned most, as 
 to the greatest criminal, must we most freely 
 open our hearts. In each case the need is great ; 
 in neither case will punishment avail. Punish- 
 ment fills both man and nation with hate and 
 vengeance. But love remakes the world. Re- 
 generation comes from within. Let our new 
 faith be : "I dedicate myself, my home, and my 
 country to every other nation ; my life, my love, 
 my liberty will I share." 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART I. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Crossing the ocean in war time . 3 
 
 II. At the Hague 14 
 
 III. Under the lid in war-cursed Berlin 26 
 
 IV. London and the Suffragettes . . 42 
 V. Nursing the wounded in Paris . . 53 
 
 VI. Little Brother 68 
 
 PART II. 
 
 I. The Scandinavian Countries . . 83 
 
 II. Hamburg under the hand of death 100 
 
 III. Life in Berlin 118 
 
 IV. The food riots and the potato line 136 
 V. Signs of unrest and rebellion . . 152 
 
 VI. A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS PRISON 
 
 CAMPS AND HOSPITALS .... 169 
 
 VII. Women factory workers . ... 190 
 
 VIII. Peace meetings in Munich . . . 207 
 
 IX. The escape from Germany . . . 228 
 x. a flying trip through france and 
 
 England 245 
 
 XI. Die Mutter 265 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A German mother who has given her seven sons to the war 
 
 — Frontispiece ~ 
 
 The Badge of Hate 2* 
 
 The American Ambulance at Neuilly 21"' 
 
 In 1915 one piece of bread was served in the restaurants 
 
 in a paper envelope 28" 
 
 A facsimile of a bread card used in 1916 .... 29 
 
 Map of the author's two trips 36 
 
 Zeni Peshkoff, adopted son of Maxim Gorki, who lost bis 
 
 right arm 59 
 
 A wounded French soldier and his mother .... 59 
 A facsimile of the safe conduct given the author to the 
 
 battlefield of the Marne 66" 
 
 Facsimile of the author's passport with the German, 
 
 French and British stamps 84" 
 
 The Bismarck Denkmal 105^ 
 
 German prisoners today plainly show signs of under feeding 125*' 
 A facsimile of the handbill circulated in Berlin the evening 
 
 the Deutschland reached Bremen for the first time . 160 ; 
 The prison camp at Heidelberg for French, English and 
 
 Russian officers 179' 
 
 The sitting room in the prison camp, Heidelberg . . . 179 ' 
 A facsimile of the luncheon menu card at the Hotel Mar- 
 
 quardt, Stuttgart 193' 
 
 Women factory workers » r . . . 213 ' 
 
 Die Mutter f. tM. '.. . . 269 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 PART I 
 
THE BADGE OF HATE 
 A facsimile of a stamp used 
 in the beginning of the war to 
 stick on letters and packages. 
 It was later prohibited. 
 
F 
 
 SHORT RATIONS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 CROSSING THE OCEAN IN WAR TIME 
 
 OR eight months the war had raged. We in 
 America found it hard to visualize. Only 
 the people from Europe with their tales of blood- 
 shed made it a reality. Women from all the bel- 
 ligerent countries came to us. They implored 
 America to bring back peace on earth and save 
 their men. It was this cry stirred American 
 women. A little group headed by Jane Addams 
 resolved to hold a woman's international con- 
 ference. The meeting place was to be The 
 Hague. The women knew they couldn't stop 
 the war, but they decided to register a protest 
 against the slaughter of man and lay plans for 
 a future permanent peace. 
 
 To cross the ocean in war time is an undertak- 
 ing. An ocean filled with battle-ships presents 
 
 3 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 unknown dangers, but forty-three American 
 women embarked on the adventure. 
 
 The "Evening Post" asked me to go as its 
 correspondent. I at once accepted. In five 
 days I packed my bags, adjusted my affairs, and 
 was on board the steamship Noordam. 
 
 It was a warm spring day when our boat pulled 
 from dock. A white flag bearing in letters of 
 blue the word " Peace " floated from our mast- 
 head. This made our ship the center of all eyes. 
 Soon we had passed the Battery and the city 
 grew dim in the distance. At the harbor en- 
 trance were two American torpedo boats. It 
 was the first intimation of war. We fell to talk- 
 ing of submarines and the dangers ahead. 
 
 A passing ship bound for New York from Rot- 
 terdam saluted. Our little white flag fluttered 
 gaily, in answer. Our hearts thrilled at the 
 sight. We realized we had set forth on a mis- 
 sion. Of the sixty-two first cabin passengers 
 forty-four were women delegates to The Hague. 
 It was a goodly company assembled from many 
 States — Oregon, California, Wisconsin, Iowa, 
 Illinois, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, New Jer- 
 sey, Washington, D. C, and New York. Though 
 many had n't previously met, we were soon bound 
 
 4 
 
CROSSING THE OCEAN IN WAR TIME 
 
 together by a common cause. Outside there was 
 a gray sky and calm sea. Inside there was equal 
 peace and calm. 
 
 Each morning we assembled to discuss history 
 and diplomacy, while the evenings were devoted 
 to personal reminiscences. Like the Canterbury 
 Pilgrims of old, each told his tale. Bit by bit 
 through the Pilgrims' tales personalities grew 
 distinct. The two most striking were Jane Ad- 
 dams and Mrs. Pethick Lawrence. They were 
 totally unlike, but by very contrast vivified each 
 other. One evening they had a debate, — " Is 
 war ever justifiable? " was the subject. Miss 
 Addams took the negative. Gentle, modest, clad 
 in a dark silk dress, the light of her spirit shining 
 in her tragic eyes, she seemed hardly of the earth. 
 She pleaded for the sacredness of life and the 
 policy of non-resistance. To turn from her to 
 Mrs. Lawrence was to turn to a burning flame. 
 The Englishwoman in her Oriental dress of red 
 and green was all passion and fire. Every ges- 
 ture had meaning. Spirit and body were one. 
 She wanted to fight for peace ; would go singing 
 to death to rid the world of war. Both women 
 were inspired by the same ideal. But one looked 
 at life as a saint; the other faced reality. One 
 
 5 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 preached non-resistance; the other active resist- 
 ance to war, believing that peace and liberty were 
 dearer than life. 
 
 Other members of the company were also dis- 
 tinctive. The little telephone operator until the 
 night of her story remained undiscovered. Then 
 her fresh, vital personality burst upon us. Three 
 years ago w T ith a handful of girls she had organ- 
 ized a union, which now numbers ten thousand. 
 In the early days the union won a fight for bet- 
 ter conditions by arbitration. Out of that suc- 
 cess sprang the powerful organization of to-day. 
 If they could arbitrate, the telephone girls rea- 
 soned, Europe ought also to be able to arbitrate, 
 so they sent forth their cherished leader. She, 
 they felt, might bring peace to earth. Each mem- 
 ber taxed herself with sixty cents monthly to pay 
 for the trip, and the little telephone operator 
 set gaily forth. She had never traveled before. 
 Each moment on the ocean was a revelation. 
 She was always discovering new wonders. Then 
 there was a poetess who had written a poem called 
 " Motherhood " which had been published and 
 widely circulated by the Carnegie Peace Founda- 
 tion. There was a woman doctor, who told us 
 of the diseases that follow in the wake of war. 
 
 6 
 
CROSSING THE OCEAN IN WAR TIME 
 
 There were three women lawyers, a Quaker 
 preacher, numerous social workers, and several 
 writers. 
 
 Besides our little company, there were seven- 
 teen other passengers, among them a small Ger- 
 man girl of nineteen. She was a problem. 
 Pretty, frivolous, high-heeled and flirtatious, she 
 was on her way to her lover, a young German of- 
 ficer. We held lengthy consultations over her 
 case. We had all seen " War Brides." This 
 child must be made to realize that woman must 
 not propagate unless man promises there shall be 
 no more war. 
 
 Unfortunately most of us were spinsters. Our 
 passionate plea for motherhood didn't have a 
 proper setting. W r e did n't make a dent in this 
 young female of the species. We searched for a 
 copy of " War Brides," in vain. But had we 
 found it she would not have read it. She flirted 
 with every man on board and steered her course 
 among us all. 
 
 The days glided swiftly by, calm and unevent- 
 ful. Life on shipboard became a habit. We 
 seemed to have been always journeying forth. 
 
 But on the eighth day we reached the danger 
 zone. At night our ship was brightly lighted. 
 
 7 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 On each side of the boat in large letters of elec- 
 tricity was the ship's name. The eighth night 
 was one of suspense and excitement. Some hud- 
 dled together and talked far into the night, but 
 Miss Addams went serenely to bed. My room- 
 mate got down the life preservers — she wished 
 she could foresee events, for if we were to be 
 blown up, she wanted to dress for the part. In 
 the end she wore her best underclothing and silk 
 stockings to bed. Morning came and we slowly 
 crept toward the coast. It was a gray day and 
 we saw the land indistinctly. Small sailing ves- 
 sels were about us and seagulls hovered over- 
 head. Once we slowed down and steered out of 
 our course. Two small boats ahead of us with a 
 net between them were dragging the sea for 
 mines. On the top deck, the life-boats had been 
 stripped of canvas and put in readiness and the 
 deck rails removed. 
 
 That night at dinner Miss Addams suggested 
 an evening of entertainment to divert us. To- 
 ward the close of the program the boat suddenly 
 stopped. The audience grew restless. There 
 was a shrill whistle and sound of running feet. 
 We rushed for the deck. The red and white 
 light of a small boat appeared at the ship's side. 
 
CROSSING THE OCEAN IN WAR TIME 
 
 She made fast to our steamer. Three English 
 officers climbed the rope ladder and rushed to the 
 captain's room. 
 
 All was commotion and excitement. We ran 
 from one side of the steamer to the other. No 
 one knew what was happening. We gazed at 
 the little boat. The men on board her hurried 
 madly about. They pulled out a box. In it was 
 ammunition. Then a small cannon was uncov- 
 ered, and directed toward us. It was quickly 
 loaded and the men stood ready, ammunition in 
 hand. Now two other small boats appeared. 
 They also came close to the steamer and remained 
 alongside. We were being surrounded. Just as 
 suspense grew intolerable, the officers who 
 boarded us came from the bridge. They were 
 leading two captives. Around each was tied a 
 rope. Then we knew what had happened. Two 
 German stowaways had been caught and taken 
 prisoners. As the captives descended the rope 
 ladder, one of them raised his cap high above his 
 head and shouted, " Hoch der Kaiser ! Vater- 
 land fiber alles ! " We leaned over the ship's rail 
 in the flickering light. We saw the prisoners on 
 the deck of the small boat below. Their hands 
 were held high above their heads, while the Eng- 
 
 9 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 lish soldiers searched them. The captors evi- 
 dently admired the bravery of their captives. 
 They treated them considerately. 
 
 Next morning we were steaming up the Eng- 
 lish Channel, and at eight were opposite Dover. 
 Here we anchored and were boarded for inspec- 
 tion. Only the men's passports were examined. 
 All day our boat was at a standstill and we 
 sat or walked idly about the decks. Torpedo 
 boats moved to and fro. A few steamers were 
 seen at anchor. One, a South American steamer, 
 was only a few rods away. We exchanged 
 greeting with the passengers. Late in the after- 
 noon we crowded on deck to see a round black 
 speck in the air. It moved toward the French 
 coast. As it came nearer we saw it was an air- 
 ship. It looked like a wicked submarine which 
 had taken to flight. Presently it retook its 
 course to the English coast. 
 
 Next morning we were still at anchor. We 
 grew restless. It dawned on us we might be 
 here for days. We gradually realized we must 
 protest, if we would move. We sought out the 
 captain. He was noncommittal. We asked for 
 permission to send messages ashore. He doubted 
 if it could be managed. We were veritable pris- 
 
 10 
 
CROSSING THE OCEAN IN WAR TIME 
 
 oners. But in the afternoon the English boat 
 again came to us. We lay siege to the British 
 officer. We wrote out a telegram to our Ameri- 
 can ambassador at London, imploring his aid. 
 The English officer agreed to send it. Now came 
 hours of weary waiting. Our unity and enthu- 
 siasm vanished. The ship was the same, the peo- 
 ple the same, but we were thwarted in our pur- 
 pose. Making us prisoners made us ugly. 
 Dissensions grew in our midst. The conserva- 
 tives did not wish to be hasty, they would fold 
 hands and patiently trust to the authorities, but 
 the rebel spirits were not to be quelled. Nothing 
 was ever gained save through struggle. They 
 brought pressure to bear on the captain and sent 
 surreptitious messages ashore by friendly sail- 
 boats. The days dragged on, Saturday, Sunday, 
 Monday. All sorts of rumors were afloat. One 
 was that a battle was raging in the North Sea; 
 another that the trouble lay with our cargo — 
 that we were women sitting on a load of am- 
 munition! A third that England was holding 
 us up because we were a band of women with 
 peaceful intentions. 
 
 We secured a newspaper from a passing sail- 
 boat. We found that England had stopped all 
 
 11 
 
SHOET RATIONS 
 
 channel steamers. The delegation of women 
 from England was not to be allowed to cross to 
 The Hague. The papers ridiculed the women; 
 they call them " peacettes " bound for a tea party 
 at The Hague. But, as usual, opposition only 
 strengthened the cause. We grew fearless and 
 united. With Miss Addams's cooperation, we 
 besieged the captain and sent innumerable tele- 
 grams. At length our distress calls were an- 
 swered. A British boat dashed up. It bore a 
 message from the American ambassador. We 
 gathered in an expectant circle, but our faces 
 grew tragic as Miss Addams read : " The British 
 authorities have completely suspended traffic 
 with Holland for the present. No ships are leav- 
 ing for Dutch ports. I greatly regret it is be- 
 yond my power to aid you in the matter. Even 
 American diplomatic officers may not pass." 
 
 We were foiled. It was Monday, and Tuesday 
 the conference was to begin. But just as the 
 rebel spirits were on the eve of a revolution we 
 heard a shrill whistle. Another little tug dashed 
 to our ship's side. An officer boarded our boat. 
 A few seconds later a steward rushed from the 
 bridge. " We are off ! " he cried ; " the clearance 
 papers have come." A little cheer goes up from 
 
 12 
 
CROSSING THE OCEAN IN WAR TIME 
 
 our midst. We dance about the deck. We played 
 tag and ran three-legged races to let off steam. 
 Of course we attributed our good fortune to the 
 American ambassador, in spite of his telegram. 
 But again there was delay. Our steamer 
 whistled vainly for a pilot. There was none to be 
 had. Our captain was given a map of the mine- 
 strewn North Sea. He was told he might pro- 
 ceed, but at his own risk. He decided to wait 
 until morning. Many of us were up early. The 
 mines loomed large. Our eyes swept the horizon 
 for warships and submarines, but our ship moved 
 quietly forward without adventure. Toward 
 noon we sighted the Hook of Holland. Soon we 
 were steaming up the long waterway. It was a 
 warm spring day. The land was gay with tulips. 
 The flat green meadows stretched out peacefully 
 in the golden sunlight. Here there was no sign 
 of war. Our dangers were passed. Our first 
 battle had been won. 
 
CHAPTEK II 
 
 AT THE HAGUE 
 
 IT was six p.m. when we left our boat. For sev- 
 eral hours she had been steaming up the nar- 
 row waterway to Botterdam, while the peace and 
 quiet of Holland descended upon us. On pass- 
 ing barges Dutch families gazed at us wonder- 
 ingly. The man of the family, pipe in mouth, 
 sprawled on deck, and the kiddies dangled their 
 feet in the water. The song of birds filled the 
 air and buds were bursting on every tree. The 
 sky was the softest blue. New York, with its 
 bustle and roar, seemed nearer war than this 
 lazy land of fresh spring sweetness. 
 
 But we had no time for loitering. We dashed 
 from the ship to the railroad station. There was 
 just two hours before the conference at eight. 
 
 When we reached The Hague we found wild 
 confusion. That city was full of Belgian refu- 
 gees. There were few vacancies at hotels. At 
 every street corner one encountered cabs filled 
 with women delegates madly driving from one 
 
 14 
 
AT THE HAGUE 
 
 hotel to another. Eventually we all found shel- 
 ter, but there was no time for dinner. We set 
 off immediately for the great meeting hall. 
 When we arrived an important looking official 
 waved us sternly back. We had n't stopped for 
 tickets. But we stood our ground and shouted 
 to a Dutch woman beyond the entrance, " We are 
 the Americans." 
 
 Instantly she was upon us. " Oh," she cried, 
 as she grasped our hands, " I 'm so glad you 're 
 alive and not blown up, or at the bottom of the 
 sea. We didn't know what had happened." 
 Then she led us triumphantly inside. 
 
 It was a gay, if hungry, American delegation 
 that burst upon the meeting. As Jane Addams 
 mounted the platform and the audience realized 
 we had come, they broke into tumultuous ap- 
 plause. The place was crowded. People stood 
 everywhere. Seventeen women sat on the plat- 
 form, representing many different nations. The 
 opening address was made by a Hollander, and 
 the first speech delivered by a German. 
 
 From the beginning the object of the congress 
 was made plain. It was not to stop war, but to 
 protest against war and to lay plans for future 
 peace. For the first time in history, a band of 
 
 15 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 women from belligerent and neutral nations had 
 organized. They had risen above war's hatred 
 and grasped hands, as women and mothers. 
 
 We went back that night to our scattered 
 dwellings full of fine courage. The moon shone 
 down upon us. The canals shimmered in the 
 moonlight. The Hague seemed a haven of rest 
 and strength. But next morning we saw a sight 
 that made war a reality. On the green plain in 
 front of the assembly hall thousands of young 
 men were being drilled. All Holland was mobil- 
 izing. While a thousand women in a big hall 
 were discussing ways to save life, across the 
 street thousands of men were learning how to 
 take life. 
 
 It was a mixed company who attended the con- 
 ference. The diversity was not in ideas, but in 
 careers and temperaments. There were rich 
 and poor, the cold reserved people of the North, 
 and the fiery passionate people of the South. 
 There were women lawyers and women dress- 
 makers, artists and stenographers, reformers and 
 journalists, and many just plain mothers. These 
 women had come together in spite of difficulties 
 over mine-strewn seas and past frontier searches. 
 
 Perhaps the Belgian delegates made the most 
 16 
 
AT THE HAGUE 
 
 dramatic group. Their path had bristled with 
 difficulties. They had had to get passports from 
 the enemy. The first German appealed to was 
 obdurate, but an official higher up was sought. 
 The sturdy, determined, and energetic Made- 
 moiselle Hammer would not be denied. "We 
 wish to attend a women's congress. It is im- 
 portant ; you must let us pass," is what she said. 
 Her courage won the day. But the difficulties 
 were not over. The Belgian train service was 
 inadequate. The first of the journey had to be 
 made in a borrowed automobile. After a while 
 this was stopped, then the women descended 
 and marched for two hours with heavy suitcases. 
 Finally the frontier was reached. Then came a 
 search. At last after weary hours of waiting 
 and travel the Belgians arrived triumphant. 
 The word that they were in the hall spread like 
 wild fire. They were invited to the platform. 
 Up they went to fill the vacant chairs next to the 
 German delegation. The house rose in excite- 
 ment. Then it broke into frantic applause. 
 Handkerchiefs and hats were waved madly and 
 the air was filled with cries of " Bravo." For in 
 spite of our diversity, one bond held all together 
 — the belief in the sacredness of life. 
 
 17 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 Under the inspiration of a great ideal, under 
 Miss Addams's gentle and wise guidance, under 
 the soft beauty of Holland, our differing per- 
 sonalities and nationalities intermingled. Each 
 morning we worked together ; each afternoon we 
 talked and walked and played together and each 
 evening we heard one another speak. 
 
 And every day incidents occurred which were 
 pregnant with meaning. On one occasion Mr. 
 and Mrs. Pethick Lawrence of England invited 
 Dr. Augsburg and Friiulein Heyman of Germany 
 to dine. A gasp went 'round the dining-room 
 as this little group entered. I w T as one of the 
 party and heard what was said. " We ought, of 
 course, to get out of Belgium," said the Germans, 
 "but then when you judge us, remember that 
 England is in many places she ought not to be." 
 
 "Yes," said the Englishman and woman, 
 "there is, for instance, the Rock of Gibraltar. 
 We have no right there. Some day that rock 
 must go back to its rightful owners." For hours 
 those amazing people talked in great friendli- 
 ness. They readjusted the world. They did it 
 on the basis of justice, instead of diplomacy. 
 At the close of the evening the Englishman es- 
 corted the German ladies to their car and gaily 
 
AT THE HAGUE 
 
 waved his liat in farewell. Such examples had 
 their effect. Soon each was trying to outdo the 
 other in tolerance. 
 
 This did not mean a lack of sympathy for the 
 Allies — on the contrary. For instance, Hol- 
 land's position was thus stated by a little Dutch 
 woman : " When the war broke out, our hearts 
 were with Germany. We have German blood in 
 our veins. The Queen's husband is a German, 
 and the mouth of the Ehine lies in our land. 
 But after a while a change came. Belgian 
 refugees poured into our land. My town of six 
 thousand inhabitants had four hundred to care 
 for. I had five of them in my house. They 
 told tales. We came to dread German autoc- 
 racy and militarism. We are a free people. 
 We believe in democracy. Before the war three 
 hundred thousand men and women signed a 
 petition for woman suffrage. That 's a big num- 
 ber for this little land. Gradually the Queen's 
 attitude has changed in spite of her German 
 husband. Her ministers have made her fear 
 Germany. If Holland went to war to-day it 
 would be with the Allies. We would rather risk 
 English domination than endure German mili- 
 tarism." So spoke this gray-haired, middle-aged 
 
 19, 
 
. SHORT RATIONS 
 
 Dutchwoman. Then she added, gazing dreamily 
 at her peaceful land : " Of course, if trouble 
 came, we could open our dikes. But we don't 
 w T ant war. Recently there was a call for a 
 hundred thousand additional volunteers. Only 
 ninety men from the big city of Amsterdam re- 
 sponded. No — Holland does n't want war." 
 
 Such personal talks were as illuminating as 
 the congress, and as the days glided by we grew 
 ever closer together. The beauty of Holland 
 made us mellow. Overhead the sky was always 
 blue ; gay tulips filled the land with color ; the air 
 was fragrant with the scent of flowers. Outer 
 dissimilarities merged in the universal. The 
 ties of love, motherhood, and future welfare 
 held. 
 
 Only once was the note of nationalism struck 
 as against internationalism. The program from 
 the beginning had centered on plans for future 
 peace. All had agreed that small nations must 
 be insured their integrity, that there must be 
 freedom of the seas, that trade must be free to 
 all, that future disputes must be settled by some 
 kind of international cooperation and agreement. 
 On these matters there was perfect accord — 
 accord in spite of difference in language, for 
 
 20 
 
■ '■ 
 
 1 
 
 ' : ? 
 
 I ' '" * *" 
 
 THE AMERICAN AMBULANCE AT NEUILLY 
 The Author Is the Nurse in the Rear 
 
AT THE HAGUE 
 
 every speech had to be put into three tongues — 
 French, English, and German. It was not until 
 the war itself was discussed that there came a 
 rift. That the war should be discussed was in- 
 evitable. Day by day, as we sat side by side, we 
 had learned of the suffering in war-ridden lands. 
 Black-clad wives had made speeches. Sorrowing 
 mothers had shown their agony. The battle-field 
 became a reality, covered with dead and dying 
 sons and husbands. These glimpses of tragedy 
 wrung our hearts. We ceased to be enemies 
 or friends. We were just women. All precon- 
 ceived plans vanished. There grew an urgent 
 need to do something. It was then the following 
 motion was presented : " Be it resolved that this 
 congress urge the governments of the world to 
 put an end to bloodshed and begin negotiations 
 for peace.." On the instant came that note of 
 nationalism. The Belgian delegation rose to its 
 feet. W T hat did peace mean? Surely not that 
 the Belgians would be a subject race. Out from 
 their tortured hearts came the cry, " Je suis Beige 
 avant tout" Sympathy throbbed in our hearts. 
 Eagerly we explained. A peace founded on jus- 
 tice was our dream. " Would we," they asked, 
 " insert the word just before ' peace '? " Gladly 
 
 23 
 
SHOET RATIONS 
 
 the suggestion was accepted. Both England and 
 Germany voted for the amendment. 
 
 Such were the women who made up the con- 
 gress. Such were the things they said. But as 
 the days came for departure, a restlessness grew 
 visible. The suffering of war had laid its hold 
 on the delegates. They wanted something more 
 than mere resolutions — they wanted immediate 
 action. To go quietly home had become im- 
 possible. Then a member rose to her feet. 
 " We can't stop here," she begged. " We have 
 demonstrated our solidarity, but there is some- 
 thing greater. We must demonstrate that moral 
 courage is greater than physical. We must have 
 courage to call for the end of war now. Courage 
 to think of no one but the dying men on the bat- 
 tle-field, who turn their glazed eyes to us seeking 
 help. Courage to say not one more shall be 
 killed. Courage to say we can't wait — we must 
 have peace now. Courage to carry this demand 
 personally from nation to nation." This was 
 her plea. Sobs broke from grief-stricken moth- 
 ers. Tears streamed down faces. Women were 
 stirred past utterance. No vote was needed to 
 carry this motion. The audience rose as one. 
 
 So ended the congress, but these meetings were 
 24 
 
AT THE HAGUE 
 
 but the preliminary steps. In a few days Jane 
 Addams with two other women started on her 
 pilgrimage. She was to bear the women's mes- 
 sage from nation to nation. 
 
 What effect this meeting of women will have, 
 who can tell? Idealistic, impractical, it may 
 have been, but little it was not. While war 
 rages, force reigns on earth and we forget it is 
 ideas that made that force possible. But ideas 
 can also create good-will. No thought sent out 
 into the world dies. The future lies in our 
 hands. It is for us to mold it. 
 
 25 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 UNDER THE LID IN WAR-CURSED BERLIN 
 
 June, 1915. 
 ^ON'T go," said the American embassy at 
 The Hague. " Americans are not wanted. 
 You may get into trouble." 
 
 I packed my bag with beating heart. Go I 
 would — for why live unless adventure? But I 
 spoke no German. How could it be managed? 
 My head was full of tales of hardship and im- 
 prisonment. The Lusitania had just been sunk. 
 I had never been to Germany. Berlin was a 
 strange city. 
 
 I pinned my little American flag and my Hague 
 Peace Congress badge on the lapel of my coat. 
 My passport I tucked in my pocket. With a 
 small hand-bag and no printed or written word 
 I started forth. 
 
 Fortunately a Hungarian newspaperwoman 
 whom I had met, traveled by the same train. 
 We were an ill-assorted pair — she, petite and 
 
 26 
 
WAR-CURSED BERLIN 
 
 feminine and full of gay, light humor ; I, serious, 
 clad in business clothes with many capacious 
 pockets. " Mon maH" she called me. "Ma 
 femme " proved a very useful person. She spoke 
 five languages. Born in Russia with French an- 
 cestors, living in Paris, and married to a Hun- 
 garian, her heart was with the Allies. Life in 
 Budapest was difficult. She dreaded return. 
 But her glib German tongue and Hungarian 
 marriage made her persona grata in Germany. 
 
 Her flirtation with the passport officials at the 
 frontier let us through with smiles and an invi- 
 tation to wait over a train. 
 
 Before the border was reached, I had hidden 
 my American flag. It was not wise to speak 
 English. This made me very helpless. I per- 
 suaded my companion to stop off with me in 
 Berlin. 
 
 It was a long, tedious dav's journey. The 
 German pasture lands were empty — no people, 
 men or women, anywhere, and no cattle. But it 
 was Sunday. Perhaps that was the reason. 
 
 When we had secured rooms at a hotel we 
 started forth to see the city. A passing throng 
 filled the Friedrichstrasse, but half were sol- 
 diers. Every fifth person was in mourning or 
 
 27 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 wore a black band upon the sleeve. The faces 
 in the electric light looked pale and tense. There 
 was much talk, but no laughter. 
 
 )far gegen Jlkgabe dst 
 
 In 1915 one piece of bread was served in the restaurants in a paper 
 envelope marked as above. 
 
 Every now and then one caught the word Lusi- 
 tania. Only the day before the steamship had 
 been sunk. 
 
 I clung to my companion. We talked in whis- 
 pers. Once or twice an English word between 
 us caught the ear of a passer-by, who turned, 
 flushed and angry, to glare upon me. I soon 
 
 28 
 
WAR-CURSED BERLIN 
 
 ceased speaking. In the restaurant I made wild 
 guesses and pointed at dishes on the menu and 
 uttered no sound. I felt as I had during my 
 
 ^k) /Tagesbrotkar te 
 
 Brot, Zwieback Oder 
 mlt He? e hergestellter Kuchen 
 darf nur gegen Vorlegpo* 
 der Karte us 
 sprechender ' 
 
 nommen werden. 
 
 Name d@s Qasthauses; 
 
 53w^ Ushof - 
 
 * QmscneJns ent- 
 
 UnverkSufHch. 1 /^^K^\ Tag der Geltung: 
 Rackseitebeachteat ^gg^-^pMllg; -- 
 
 25 g 
 Brot 
 
 A facsimile of a bread card used in 1916. Two of the little checks 
 secured one roll. 
 
 voluntary week in prison, when under the hos- 
 tile and unfriendly eyes of the matrons. 
 
 The hotel had given us " bread-cards." With 
 these we secured some black and sour-tasting 
 
 29 
 
SHOBT KATIONS 
 
 bread, done up in sealed paper packages. Un- 
 der her breath my companion confided that Hun- 
 gary was worse off than Germany. Hungary 
 was nearly breadless. Germany had bought 
 Hungary's flour supply. 
 
 "A fine ally, Germany," continued my com- 
 panion, " little she cares for us. She does n't 
 even trust us. Every letter mailed in Berlin to 
 Budapest is opened and read; Germany is won- 
 derful, but I hate the people." 
 
 Next morning we started out to find a place 
 where English was tolerated, for my companion 
 could not stay on. We hunted up some German- 
 Americans who had invited American women 
 peace delegates to come to Berlin. Their hos- 
 pitality was boundless. I was to be a guest and 
 passed from hand to hand. I saw my freedom 
 vanishing, but was powerless. 
 
 The German-Americans had planned the con- 
 version of every American. I was seized upon 
 as the missionary seizes the cannibal. I tried to 
 extricate myself. Bitter little taunts were 
 thrust at me. Did I fear starvation, or the bar- 
 barians? Eventually I capitulated. I was to 
 have one more night at the hotel with my gay 
 friend before her departure. 
 
 30 
 
WAR-CURSED BERLIN 
 
 That night we went to the Winter Garden. 
 The place was filled with soldiers. One feature 
 of the performance was a series of living tableaux 
 depicting war. They were intended to inspire 
 wild patriotism. 
 
 But the soldiers were silent; only a mild ap- 
 plause greeted the effort. One scene, symbolic 
 of stupendous heroism — the last soldier firing 
 the last shot — was received in grim silence. 
 
 All Berlin is grim and tense. People pass and 
 repass on the street. The shops are open, life 
 goes on. But there is no genial friendliness, no 
 lingering over a glass of beer, no bit of gay song. 
 Everywhere there are gray, dusty, and worn uni- 
 forms. When a troop of soldiers pass, their 
 faces are pale, their feet drag. The goose-step 
 has vanished. 
 
 With the departure of my companion, I settled 
 down in a German home, a modest menage, but 
 every detail perfect. All Germany runs without 
 friction. 
 
 My host is a university professor, his wife an 
 American. They are all hospitality, but their 
 zealousness torments me. I am the heathen 
 whose soul must be saved. 
 
 From the day of my arrival to the moment of 
 31 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 my departure, we have but one topic of conver- 
 sation — Germany's virtues and America's sins. 
 A great pity seizes me for this tragic couple. 
 Their thin, pallid faces bespeak wracked nerves 
 and tortured souls. Under the domination of a 
 Government they adore, they dare not criticize. 
 To question would be to shatter their world. 
 German culture, German art, the Government, 
 Bismarck, the Kaiser, the invasion of Belgium, 
 the sinking of the Lusitania — in all things Ger- 
 many is wisdom and righteousness. Surrounded 
 by enemies, wicked monsters, Germany, the per- 
 fect, is fighting for its life. Better a thousand 
 times that the Lusitania be sunk and Americans 
 killed than let American bullets reach the Allies 
 to inflict death on German soldiers. 
 
 "American bullets" — hourly the phrase is 
 flung in my face. 
 
 My protest that as a peace delegate I am fight- 
 ing for the prohibition of traffic in arms and the 
 limitation of their manufacture to the Govern- 
 ment, brings no relief. Upon some one must the 
 pent-up fury and hate for despicable America be 
 poured ! 
 
 I feel like a drowning man being slowly pressed 
 down, down, under the waves. But pity for this 
 
 32 
 
WAR-CURSED BERLIN 
 
 tragic couple gives me patience. Behind the os- 
 tentatious display of bread and the sneering al- 
 lusions to " starvation " and " barbarity," I see 
 fear and bitterness bred of fear. 
 
 The man is forty and frail. Yet in a few days 
 he must report for duty to the army. A question 
 and a dread has crept into the heart of the Ger- 
 man people: 
 
 " What if we should not win? " 
 
 The grain supplies are running low. Not only 
 bread, but fodder for the animals, is lacking. 
 The cattle are being killed and put in cold stor- 
 age to save the expense of feeding. The few cab 
 horses in Berlin fall in the street from hunger. 
 In all trains are printed the following " Ten 
 Commandments " : 
 
 (1.) Don't eat more than necessary. Don't eat between 
 meals. 
 
 (2.) Consider bread sacred. Use every little piece. Dry 
 bread makes good soup. 
 
 (3.) Be economical with butter and fat. Use jam instead 
 of butter. Most of the fat we get from abroad. 
 
 (4.) Use milk and cheese. 
 
 (5.) Use much sugar. Sugar is nourishing. 
 
 (6.) Boil potatoes with the skins on; then nothing is lost 
 in peeling. 
 
 (7.) Drink less beer and alcohol; then the supply of rye 
 from which these are made will be greater. 
 
 (8.) Eat vegetables and fruit. Plant vegetables in every 
 33 
 
SHOBT EATIONS 
 
 little piece of earth. Be economical with preserved vege- 
 tables. 
 
 (9.) Gather all you don't eat for the animals. 
 
 (10.) Cook with gas and coke. The ashes from coke 
 make good fertilizer. 
 
 Moral — Obey these ten commandments and economize for 
 the Fatherland. The rich must also follow these command- 
 ments. 
 
 With the fresh crops has come renewed 
 strength. But when the fall comes, what is to 
 be done? There is no longer a canning industry, 
 for there is no tin. 
 
 In such an atmosphere of depression and sup- 
 pression my free American spirit suffocates. I 
 plan an escape. Somewhere in Berlin are free, 
 fearless souls. These I must find. My hosts 
 fear to have me venture out alone. One of the 
 American peace delegates was driven by an angry 
 mob from a tram car for speaking English. ' 
 
 I take my map and study it. I have the ad- 
 dresses of some Social Democrats. How get to 
 them? My hosts do not tolerate such people. 
 
 Then I remember the American embassy and 
 a young man friend. I plead a luncheon en- 
 gagement. This seems safe, and in a cab, un- 
 accompanied, I escape. To my countryman I ex- 
 plain my predicament. All absences are to be 
 accounted for by him. 
 
 34 
 
WAR-CURSED BERLIN 
 
 Then alone, map in hand, I start out. I walk 
 many weary blocks slinking along side streets 
 and avoid the complications of tram-car conver- 
 sations. I seem to be living in the days of con- 
 spiracies and dime novels. And truly ,1 am, for 
 day by day the plot thickens. 
 
 I am received with open arms by the rebel 
 women, and at once nick-named the " criminal." 
 In them I find the Germans I sought. Free, fear- 
 less people, ichose love for the Fatherland is so 
 great that they dare protest! 
 
 But these women are momentarily in danger. 
 Their gatherings are secret. We meet in out-of- 
 the-way places. I find that my telephone mes- 
 sages are intercepted; that a perfectly harmless 
 letter is never delivered. I am watched. It is 
 hard to believe. Surely I have dropped back 
 into the Middle Ages. I have to pinch myself 
 to realize I am an American, living in the twen- 
 tieth century. 
 
 Such innocent affairs, these clandestine meet- 
 ings. Mere discussion of ways to protest against 
 war and work for peace. True, we denounce the 
 invasion of Belgium, declare that Germany be- 
 gan the war, and speak with loathing of the mili- 
 tarist spirit. But what American doesn't? 
 
 35 
 
SHOET BATIONS 
 
 The most revolutionary talk is uttered by a gray- 
 haired woman, the mother of grown children. 
 A burning flame, this woman; her face stamped 
 with world suffering, her eyes the tragic eyes of 
 a Jane Addams. In a secluded corner of a res- 
 taurant she whispers the great heresy : 
 
 " Germany's salvation lies in Germany's de- 
 feat. If Germany wins when so many of her 
 progressive young men have been slain, the peo- 
 ple will be crushed in the grip of the mailed 
 fist." 
 
 To this woman, democracy is greater than any 
 national triumph. With her I discussed the col- 
 lapse of the Social Democrats in the hour of 
 need, the victory of nationalism over interna- 
 tionalism. She attributes it to military train- 
 ing. During man's period of military service 
 he becomes a Thing. Automatically, he acquires 
 habits of obedience, is reduced to an unquestion- 
 ing machine. Mechanically, when the call came, 
 the Social Democrats fell into line with the 
 others. 
 
 But with time has come thought, and knowl- 
 edge; knowledge that in the first instance Ger- 
 many's war w T as not one of self-defense. But it 
 is now too late to rebel. Most of the Social 
 
 36 
 
WAR-CURSED BERLIN 
 
 Democrats are at the front. From month to 
 month they have put off protest as unwise. 
 
 Only Liebknecht has made himself heard. 
 Now he has been caught up in the iron hand and 
 sent out to battle. 
 
 But women escaped the spell of militarism. 
 While the Government rejoiced at the submission 
 of its Socialist men, the women grew active. 
 Organizing a party of their own they fought 
 bravely. 
 
 Last fall Rosa Luxembourg dashed into the 
 street and addressed a regiment of soldiers. 
 
 " Don't go to war, don't shoot your brothers ! " 
 she cried. 
 
 For this offense she was sent to prison for a 
 year. To-day she lies in solitary confinement. 
 But her suffering only inspired the others. In 
 the month of March seven hundred and fifty 
 w r omen walked to the Reichstag. At the en- 
 trance they halted. As the members entered 
 they shouted: 
 
 "We will have no more war. We will have 
 peace ! " 
 
 Quickly the police dispersed them, and the 
 order went forth that no newspaper print one 
 word about the protest. 
 
 37 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 Still the women work on. On the eighth of 
 April an International Socialist Woman's Con- 
 gress was held at Berne, Switzerland. Ten na- 
 tions were represented, including all the bel- 
 ligerents. 
 
 The task of peace propaganda in Germany is 
 gigantic. Neither by letter nor by press can 
 news be spread. Both are censored. The work 
 must be carried on by spoken word, passed from 
 mouth to mouth. The courage of the little band 
 of women I had met was stupendous. Through 
 them I learned to love Germany. My life in 
 Berlin was a double one. I ate and slept and 
 was unregenerate in one part of town, and really 
 lived only when I escaped from " respectability," 
 and, strange contradiction of terms, became — 
 a " criminal " fighting for peace ! 
 
 But wherever I was, one fact grew omnipres- 
 ent, the magnificent organization of Germany. 
 Here lay the country's power and her weakness. 
 Her power because it made Germany a solid 
 unit. There were no weak links in the chain. 
 Her weakness because it robbed her people of 
 individuality, made them cogs in a machine. 
 
 Even in the midst of war Germany is superbly 
 run. The lawns are weedless, the flower-beds 
 
 38 
 
WAK-CURSED BERLIN 
 
 wonderful. The streets are clean. The tasks 
 the able-bodied men left are performed by 
 women, children, and old men. Nothing is neg- 
 lected. I went through Berlin's biggest hos- 
 pital. It was marvelous. There was every 
 apparatus that mind can conceive, or science in- 
 vent. The building was beautiful, the lawns gay 
 with jonquils and tulips. Little portable houses 
 had been erected to care for the wounded. Sev- 
 enteen of the staff's doctors have gone to the 
 front, but seventeen women physicians have taken 
 their places. Everything is as before. Ger- 
 many's discipline is perfect. The German peo- 
 ple do not reason and wonder why, for them 
 there is only to do and die. Everywhere you feel 
 the relentlessness of force and the power of or- 
 ganization. 
 
 As I walked through the Thiergarten one after- 
 noon, I became conscious of a great rushing buzz- 
 ing noise. Directly over my head and quite low 
 was a great Zeppelin. I thanked heaven I was 
 in Berlin and not Paris. The Germans are very 
 busy with their Zeppelins. Just outside Berlin 
 is a little wooden city, built to give airships prac- 
 tice in hurling bombs. Men toiling for years 
 have erected wonder-cities like Berlin, and now 
 
 39 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 other men are practising day and night how to 
 destroy such a city in a day. What a travesty ! 
 It is common talk in Germany that they have at 
 last discovered a bomb that, once ignited, cannot 
 be put out by water. If so, heaven help us ! 
 
 For Germany will never give in. She will 
 fight to her last man. If pushed to the wall, all 
 the bitterness and fear that have crept into the 
 nation will be directed toward a gigantic effort to 
 blow up the world. Germany no longer cares 
 whom she hurts — like an unloved child at bay, 
 she means to smash and kill. The pity of it! 
 Never was there a more generous, soft-hearted, 
 kindly people. Germany, the land of the Christ- 
 mas-tree, and folk songs, and fireside, and gay 
 childish laughter, turned into a relentless fight- 
 ing machine! But each individual is merely a 
 cog firmly fixed in the national machine, and will 
 go on obediently as long as the ruling power 
 turns the crank. 
 
 It was with infinite relief that I made my de- 
 parture one morning. The tragedy of Germany 
 had eaten into my soul. As I waited on the plat- 
 form for my train, carloads of soldiers came and 
 went. 
 
 One great trainful paused for some moments 
 40 
 
WAR-CURSED BERLIN 
 
 while tlie men drank coffee. A great desire 
 seized me to call out to these men, to beg them 
 not to go. Then I remembered Rosa Luxem- 
 bourg, realized my impotence, knew I could ac- 
 complish nothing, and resolutely turned my back. 
 Then my train came, and I sped on into Hol- 
 land. Suddenly life changed. I could speak 
 and smile. Friendly eyes greeted me. I was no 
 longer an outcast. From the car window I saw 
 a subtle change had taken place in the landscape. 
 In Germany there were no cattle in the pastures, 
 and a few women tilled the ground. Now the 
 meadows were full of sleek, fat cows. The peas- 
 ants in the fields were singing. As we steamed 
 through little cities all was bustle and activity. 
 The horses looked well fed. People sat leisurely 
 in front of cafes drinking beer. Normal life had 
 come again. Vividly it came to me that Ger- 
 many is being grievously hurt. 
 
 41 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 LONDON AND THE SUFFRAGETTES 
 
 July and August, 1915. 
 RQSSING the Channel in war time has 
 drawbacks. The only available boat from 
 Holland to England was small and tossed vio- 
 lently. First-, second-, and third-class passen- 
 gers mingled together on deck and were jointly 
 ill. German aeroplanes flew over our heads as 
 we left Flushing and filled us with apprehension. 
 Toward late afternoon we sighted the English 
 coast. I had come from Germany. My bag and 
 trunk were full of journalist's notes. Would 
 the English officials detain me? But my Amer- 
 ican passport and my English-speaking tongue 
 won favor. In Germany I had felt an outcast, in 
 England I became part of the population. 
 
 I took train from Tilbury to London. Printed 
 notices greeted one in every carriage. tl Passen- 
 gers will lower shades after dark, as any light 
 will aid enemy Zeppelins ! " It was nine o'clock 
 
 42 
 
LONDON AND THE SUFFRAGETTES 
 
 when I reached London. A blackness, like a 
 dense fog, enveloped the city. Overhead the 
 stars shone, but underfoot only a thin yellow 
 lane of light from shaded street lamps illumined 
 the road. London at night had dropped back 
 centuries. It was the London of Shakespeare. 
 One would not have been surprised to be halted 
 with the cry, " Who goes there? " 
 
 When I reached my destination, I saw large 
 wooden boxes filled with sand, standing on each 
 landing. Over each box was a notice, " Use the 
 sand to extinguish fire in case of falling bombs." 
 
 Such is London at night, but daylight tells an- 
 other story. I am awakened by a cheerful band. 
 London outwardly has the appearance of a city 
 on a holiday. Smiling, ruddy soldiers tramp up 
 and down the street. Flags float from nearly 
 every building. A little cockney urchin, as she 
 hurries after a gay procession, remarks : " Ain't 
 London grand these days ! It 's like being at the 
 seashore all the time." 
 
 Attractive-looking young women and men in 
 khaki stand on the street corners, soliciting re- 
 cruits. Gaudy posters, urgent appeals to the 
 manhood of the country, decorate every house, 
 fence, and taxi. The glory of the English army, 
 
 43 
 
SHORT EATIONS 
 
 the joy of enlistment, is told in picture and story. 
 Camp life on wind-swept hills, with good food 
 and exercise and twenty-one shillings a week for 
 wife and child, say the posters, is to be had for 
 the asking. 
 
 The stay-at-home begins to feel he is missing 
 a great adventure. The danger of war is mini- 
 mized. It is pointed out it is dangerous to live 
 in London. One poster with a picture of a Zep- 
 pelin poised over defenseless London reads, 
 " Better face bullets at the front, than a bomb 
 at home." 
 
 Securing an army by advertising is costly, 
 but volunteer recruits make good soldiers. The 
 English Tommy goes, willing and smiling, to 
 battle. This kind of soldier is hard to beat. 
 England lacks not in fighting-men, but in muni- 
 tion. The Government may be running into 
 bankruptcy, but the people are thriving. The 
 almshouses are emptying. Work can be had. 
 The police courts are almost idle. Never was 
 London so crowded. There are few private au- 
 tomobiles, but many taxis and motor-cycles. To 
 cross the street is hazardous. Traffic is often 
 blocked. Money flows freely. Prices are high, 
 but there is little unemployment. 
 
 44 
 
LONDON AND THE SUFFEAGETTES 
 
 Men go to the front and women fill vacant 
 places. Soldiers' wives can pay rent and buy 
 clothes. Women occuping men's places spend 
 twice what they did formerly. Girls run ele- 
 vators, punch tickets, and act as post-office 
 clerks. Outside one store a girl in high boots 
 and rubber hat and coat calls taxis. 
 
 Poverty has n't disappeared, but poverty is on 
 the decrease. War has fallen heaviest on the 
 middle class, the employers, the suppliers of lux- 
 uries, the barristers. Hotels, hairdressing par- 
 lors, and tourist agencies suffer. England's 
 richest and poorest are dying at the front, but 
 the stay-at-home wage-earner spends his money 
 and prospers. 
 
 The Government has entered into many social- 
 istic ventures ; it runs the railroads and will soon 
 control the coal mines; it settles labor disputes 
 and supervises the saloon. Drunkenness is de- 
 creasing. Measures have been passed in a day 
 under war pressure that conservative England 
 would have fought over for years. " We '11 
 change back after the war," is the comment. 
 
 England is learning through war that men 
 are as valuable as property and must be fed and 
 clothed. Nor is this the only lesson. Count- 
 
 45 
 
SHOET RATIONS 
 
 esses and duchesses daily turn over their auto- 
 mobiles to wounded soldiers. Classes mix, bar- 
 riers fall. But the day of voluntary service and 
 idealism is passing — the cabinet begins to call 
 for conscription. The National Registration 
 Act has been passed. 
 
 Newspapers and cabinet dwell on the selfish- 
 ness of the working-man. The worker must be 
 taught to take war seriously. He must be made 
 to bleed and die for the country. 
 
 The Government's newest ally is Mrs. Pank- 
 hurst and a portion of the militant suffragettes. 
 One day as I passed Trafalgar Square it was 
 crowded. Mrs. Drummond from the foot of the 
 monument was pleading for volunteers and mu- 
 nition workers. "We have given up our fight 
 for the vote; we think only of our country. 
 There is a time for everything ; to-day is the time 
 for sacrifices. You must be content with half- 
 pay. There must be no strikes. You must suf- 
 fer for England." This in substance is her 
 speech. The crowd moves uneasily. Occasion- 
 ally there is half-hearted applause, but many 
 faces express mute protest. 
 
 These suffragettes have betrayed the woman's 
 cause. Formerly they defended the down-trod- 
 
 46 
 
LONDON AND THE SUFFRAGETTES 
 
 den, now they side with autocracy, hoping so to 
 win the vote after the war. Not content with 
 speaking, Mrs. Pankhurst organized a woman's 
 procession. Every newspaper advertised the 
 event. One daily, which formerly scorned suf- 
 frage, gave a page to the cause. There was a 
 drizzling rain the day of the procession. I stood 
 on the curbstone to watch it pass. For twenty- 
 eight minutes a stream of women four abreast 
 filed by. There were five thousand — not fifty 
 thousand, as the papers stated. Most of the 
 marchers were shop and factory girls. They 
 had been gathered in from byways and hedges. 
 Many did not know why they marched. There 
 were few real suffragettes. Four times I was 
 urged to fall in line. The spectators were silent. 
 They had no words of encouragement for this 
 demonstration of patriotism. Each knew it was 
 a farce. Eighty thousand women are registered, 
 but the Government has only employed thirty- 
 five hundred. Each knew a million women work- 
 ers could be had for a living wage. 
 
 Mrs. Pankhurst by her tactics has split the 
 Woman's Suffrage Political Union. Some mem- 
 bers were openly rebellious. They walked up 
 and down and distributed a leaflet, printed in 
 
 47 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 suffragette colors and headed "Votes-for 
 Women," which read : " The procession to-day 
 is not composed of suffragettes, though Mrs. 
 Pankhurst is leading it and using the Votes-for- 
 Women offices to organize it. The W. S. P. U. 
 was founded to demand the enfranchisement of 
 women, a demand not made less but more urgent 
 by this war." 
 
 With very different emotion I viewed Sylvia 
 Pankhurst's procession. Sylvia does not speak 
 to her mother or to her sister, Crystabel. Sylvia 
 is the leader of a forlorn cause. Neither news- 
 papers nor public paid heed to her little army. 
 They marched at night through a dark and si- 
 lent London. They bore flashing torches. 
 Women who had worked all day, mothers with 
 babies, trudged seven miles to protest against 
 conscription, against national registration, 
 against voteless women being used by the Gov- 
 ernment for any and all purposes at any pay. 
 Up the Strand they came, a little band of four 
 hundred, ragged and weary. I found myself un- 
 consciously falling into line. A woman carry- 
 ing a baby trudged at my side. " It is n't mine," 
 she explained, " but the mother is one of the 
 leaders." Her face was white with fatigue, but 
 
 48 
 
LONDON AND THE SUFFKAGETTES 
 
 her arms clasped the child lovingly. She herself 
 was soon to be a mother. I took the baby from 
 her and slung it across my shoulder. So we pro- 
 ceeded up the Strand and down Whitehall to 
 the Houses of Parliament. Just opposite these 
 great buildings we halted. Here was the meet- 
 ing hall. 
 
 In flocked the little company, and then came 
 real speeches from real working women : 
 
 " Our men have gone to war. They are fight- 
 ing for England, we must keep England a place 
 worth fighting for. Women must not take men's 
 places at reduced wages. This will mean hard- 
 ship for the men when they return. Employers 
 will keep the women rather than raise wages. 
 This will mean sex war and revolution. This 
 must not be. We must keep up the wage stan- 
 dard. We must not let the Government own us 
 body and soul. The world says it is fighting 
 Prussianism. But each day of war our govern- 
 ment grows more autocratic. Let us fight to 
 keep Prussianism out of England. England 
 must remain the land of freedom." So spoke 
 this heroic band. 
 
 My little woman had come back for the baby. 
 
 "You will ride home?" I said. 
 49 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 " Yes," she replied. " But some can't — they 
 haven't a penny for carfare." 
 
 Germany is the land of paternalism and au- 
 tocracy. The Germans are better housed, better 
 fed, better organized, than in other nations. 
 These benefits are conferred from above. Such 
 a system produces obedience but kills initiative. 
 English workers are not as well off, physically, 
 but intellectually they are free. They make 
 progress through their own efforts. They are 
 self-reliant and strong. Ultimately the system 
 of freedom will conquer the one of autocracy. 
 Therefore England must be kept free. The aver- 
 age Englishman knows this. He watches with 
 dismay his government growing aggressive and 
 militaristic. 
 
 As yet the Government has not gone far. It 
 has its hand on the pulse of the people and it 
 feels rebellion. It declares strikes illegal, but 
 ultimately decides in favor of the coal mine 
 strikers. Never was England more awake, more 
 alive, more conscious of her destiny. The brave 
 and smiling Tommy, the prosperous worker, the 
 bustle and activity of London, the friendliness 
 of the people, build a strong country. Germany 
 may win untold battles, but she cannot conquer a 
 
 50 
 
LONDON AND THE SUFFRAGETTES 
 
 prosperous, democratic, conscriptionless Eng- 
 land. 
 
 But as I write I remember a scene on a street 
 corner and grow apprehensive. It is a recruit- 
 ing meeting. A sturdy British soldier is call- 
 ing for volunteers. He does not appeal, he com- 
 mands. He sees a likely looking young chap in 
 the crowd. He points him out and orders him 
 front. The lad is reluctant, but the crowd push 
 him forward. The soldier feels of the boy and 
 begins to bully. Taunts of cowardice are used 
 until the lad yields. But it is equipment rather 
 than more men that are needed. 
 
 Such methods are ugly. The Englishman dis- 
 likes them. England criticizes its rulers. This 
 worries the Government and it attempts sup- 
 pression. An eloquent pacifist is arrested. But 
 the people continue to talk of peace. They do 
 not as a mass hate Germany. They view Ger- 
 many as a brutal man who has knocked a woman 
 down. The woman must be protected. But be- 
 yond protection the average Englishman does 
 not wish to go. He does not want to smash and 
 kill. 
 
 The other day two or three thousand volun- 
 teers marched down Charing Cross Boad. The 
 
 51 
 
SHOKT KATIONS 
 
 'bus on which I rode kept pace with the soldiers. 
 From doorways and windows people leaned, to 
 see the men pass. Girls smiled and waved, little 
 gifts were tossed and caught, a cheerful chaff 
 and banter was kept up along the route. From 
 neither the onlookers nor the soldiers was there 
 any expression of patriotism, no cheers — no ap- 
 plause. The onlookers seemed to say : " This 
 war is nasty business. It's got to be put 
 through. We wish you luck. You are brave to 
 go, but we wish there was some other solution." 
 
 And the soldiers seemed to answer : " We 
 hate it, too, but each man must do his bit. If 
 we don't get killed, we're not badly off. You 
 needn't think us heroes." 
 
 This attitude may not be a thrilling one, but it 
 is steady and safe. If freedom and democracy 
 are kept alive England cannot be beaten. 
 
 At night searchlights flash over London. 
 They search the sky for invading Zeppelins ; but 
 by day a cheerful people fulfil their tasks. 
 
 52 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 NURSING THE WOUNDED IN PARIS 
 
 I WANTED to see France. The land of the 
 battle-field would be revealing. Germany 
 was grim, bitter, reckless, and determined; Eng- 
 land busy and outwardly normal. What should 
 I find in France — a land inhabited by the en- 
 emy? 
 
 Each day passport regulations grew more 
 rigid. England is easy to enter but hard to 
 leave. The English army captain at Folkestone 
 viewed my passport with disfavor. It showed 
 the stamp of the Woman's Peace Congress at 
 The Hague and my visit to Germany. He 
 frowned and looked at me sternly. Suddenly his 
 eye lighted on the lapel of my coat. My heart 
 sank. In my buttonhole was a peace button, a 
 memento of The Hague congress. I had forgot- 
 ten to remove it. " You 're a dangerous woman," 
 he said — " I can't let you pass." 
 
 One by one my lucky fellow travelers success- 
 53 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 fully emerged with stamped passports. The 
 Channel steamer began to puff and snort. I 
 must get to Paris. Furtively I watched the 
 English captain. I took the peace button from 
 my coat — a little blue disc, on it in letters of 
 white the word " Peace." What a topsy-turvy 
 world ! A bomb labeled " For the Kaiser/' would 
 have proclaimed me a safe person, while a peace 
 button made me " a dangerous woman." Sud- 
 denly I laughed. Going to the captain I held 
 out the button. " See," I said, " I '11 give it to 
 you." He tried to be stern, but his humor got 
 the best of him. His mouth twitched, but he 
 straightened up and said severely, " If you speak 
 one word of peace, I '11 have you arrested." 
 You never can tell what will satisfy passport 
 officials. Humor and a letter from the " Eng- 
 lish Nation " testifying I had written an article 
 on Germany won the day, when a letter of intro- 
 duction signed by Secretary of State Lansing 
 failed. 
 
 I smiled my good-bys to the English captain 
 and dashed on the boat, as it moved into the 
 Channel. 
 
 It was late evening when I reached Paris. 
 There was not a ray of light in the street when I 
 
 54 
 
NUKSING THE WOUNDED IN PABXS 
 
 stepped from the cab to my lodging place; in 
 that one glance I knew Paris was no longer 
 Paris. The next day I began to explore. I sat 
 at sidewalk cafes and watched the people. The 
 lightness, the gaiety, the bubbling laughter and 
 song have vanished. The Opera House sparkled 
 in the sunshine, the driver's whip snapped; the 
 streets were crowded, but a shadow lay across 
 the city. Sorrowing black-clad people filled the 
 streets. I saw that practically every woman 
 was in mourning. And the men, where were 
 they? Gray-haired men drove cabs, white- 
 haired, bent-shouldered waiters served drinks; 
 but straight, upstanding young men there were 
 none. A one-legged Turk, scarcely more than a 
 boy, went hustling by on crutches with an empty 
 red trouser-leg flapping aimlessly. Paris is full 
 of cripples. Legless, armless, blind men, all 
 young, passed in a steady stream. Every able- 
 bodied man in France under forty-eight has gone 
 to war. Unceasingly gray auto-ambulances em- 
 blazoned with red crosses dash by, bearing their 
 burdens to hospitals all over Paris. Cripples, 
 widows and ambulances — these are the dom- 
 inant notes. 
 
 France says little and does much. She is 
 55 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 proud; she is heroic; she fights on. But the 
 heart and life of France is being crushed. It is 
 impossible to see this and do nothing. I offer 
 my services as assistant nurse at the American 
 ambulance and am accepted. At eight every 
 morning a hospital car takes me to the American 
 ambulance where I work until six. It is a busy 
 life. At first I turn in horror from those swol- 
 len, red, raw, pus-flowing wounds, occupying the 
 place of an arm or leg or a portion of a face. 
 But in twenty-four hours I am dressing these 
 wounds, self -forgotten. It is good to be working 
 instead of waiting — waiting for unknown hor- 
 rors. But when a man's wound heals and his 
 strength returns I rebel at sending him back to 
 battle. Is the labor all to be lost? Faster than 
 women can save, men go out and kill. For- 
 tunately, or unfortunately, not many men leave 
 the ambulance for the front. Generally they 
 have been too terribly wounded. They come to 
 us with the jaw and lower face blown away or 
 a lung ripped. But science is marvelous. Ribs 
 are cut from the patient and new jaws made, 
 arms, legs and eyes amputated, and artificial ones 
 substituted. The ambulance loses by death but 
 six per cent, of its cases, yet only one in ten of 
 
 56 
 
NUKSING THE WOUNDED IN PAKIS 
 
 the men in my ward will be able to return to the 
 front. This accounts for the endless procession 
 of cripples. 
 
 On the second morning as I hurry down a long 
 hospital corridor I see a familiar face. A short, 
 dark-haired, dark-eyed young man is coming to- 
 ward me. He is one of the wounded and his 
 right arm is gone. His eye catches mine. He 
 stops, bewildered. Then comes recognition. It 
 is Zeni Peshkoff — Maxime Gorki's adopted son. 
 Eight years ago when this man was a boy I had 
 known him in America. I grasp the left hand 
 and my eyes drop before the empty right sleeve. 
 But Zeni Peshkoff is still gay, laughing Zeni. 
 He makes light of his trouble. Not until later 
 do I understand the terrible suffering there is 
 from the missing arm or realize how he struggles 
 to use that which is not. Peshkoff had been in 
 the trenches for months. He had been through 
 battles and bayonet charges and escaped unhurt, 
 but at last his day came. A bursting shell de- 
 stroyed the right arm. He knew the danger, 
 and struggling to his feet, walked from the bat- 
 tle-field. With the left hand he supported the 
 bleeding, broken right arm. As he stumbled 
 back past trenches full of German prisoners his 
 
 57 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 plight was so pitiful, his pluck so great, that in- 
 stinctively these men saluted. At the Place de 
 Secours eight hundred wounded had been brought 
 in. There were accommodations for one hun- 
 dred and fifty. 
 
 All night young Peshkoff lay unattended, for 
 there were others worse hurt. Gangrene de- 
 veloped, and he watched it spread from fingers to 
 hand and from hand to arm. In the morning a 
 friendly lieutenant noticed him. " There 's one 
 chance," he said, " and that 's a hospital. If you 
 can walk, come with me." Slowly young Pesh- 
 koff arose. Half fainting he dressed and went 
 with the lieutenant — first by taxi to the train 
 and then twelve torturing hours to Paris. As 
 the hours passed the gangrene crept higher and 
 higher. The sick man grew giddy with fever. 
 At each station his carriage companions, fearing 
 death, wished to leave him upon the platform. 
 But the lieutenant was firm. The one chance 
 for life was the hospital. Finally Paris was 
 reached; a waiting ambulance rushed him to 
 the hospital. Immediately he was taken to the 
 operating room and the arm amputated. A half 
 hour more and his life could not have been saved. 
 But this dramatic incident is only one of many. 
 
 58 
 
w _ 
 
NURSING THE WOUNDED IN PARIS 
 
 The pluck of the average soldier is unbeliev- 
 able. Operations are accepted without question. 
 There are no protests — only the murmured 
 " C'est la guerre, que voulez-vousf " 
 
 The wounded do not like to talk war. Their 
 experiences have been too terrible. They try to 
 forget. War is no longer a series of gallant 
 deeds; it is a matter of bursting shells. One 
 man with leg blown off had never even seen the 
 enemy. Bayonet charges after months of wait- 
 ing are almost a relief. But a normal man does 
 not enjoy running his bayonet into his fellow- 
 man. It can be done only under intense excite- 
 ment. Self-defense and stimulants are the aids. 
 
 Only one soldier spoke with gusto of the Ger- 
 mans he had killed. This man had had his lower 
 face shot away. A wounded German lying on 
 the ground had risen on his elbow and shot him. 
 " Then," said the Frenchman, " I took my bay- 
 onet and ran him clear through." He said: 
 " Ugh, I ran him through again and he was 
 dead." To most men those bayonet charges are 
 like mad dreams. 
 
 I asked Zeni Peskkoff, socialist, what his sen- 
 sations were when he went out to kill. " It 
 didn't seem real, it doesn't now. Before my 
 
 61 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 last charge the lieutenant and I were filled with 
 the beauty of the night. We sat gazing at the 
 stars. Then the command came and we rushed 
 forward. It did not seem possible I was killing 
 human beings." It is this unreality that sus- 
 tains men. Germans are not human beings — ■ 
 only the enemy. For the wounded French sol- 
 dier will tell you he loathes war and longs for 
 peace. He fights for one object — a permanent 
 peace. He fights to save his children from fight- 
 ing. 
 
 " Have you any children? " I asked one sol- 
 dier. " No, thank God/' is the reply. " But 
 why? " " Because," comes the fierce answer, 
 " if I had a son I would rather he deserted than 
 see what I have seen." This man is not unusual. 
 The soldiers — not the women — are beginning 
 to say : " We will have no more children unless 
 there is no more war." 
 
 In the hospital the truth is spoken. No sol- 
 dier wants to go back to battle. Yet he goes and 
 every man in France goes willingly. What else 
 is there to do? The enemy is in the land and 
 must be driven out. It may be the Frenchman 
 will smash himself and his house, but as he says 
 with a significant shrug, {t C'est la guerre, que 
 
 62 
 
NURSING THE WOUNDED IN PARIS 
 
 voulez-vous? " How often that phrase struck 
 my ears. In the operating room, at the death- 
 bed, in the presence of hundreds of little white 
 crosses on a bloody battle-field, wearily, cynic- 
 ally, despairingly, I hear the voice of the soldier 
 proclaiming, " C'est la guerre, que voulez vousf " 
 Yet out of the suffering of war has come gentle- 
 ness. Ready hands help one another. Strangers 
 talk in the street. Wherever I go my little red 
 cross sign of the hospital wins favor. A torn 
 skirt is humbly mended on bended knees, and 
 when I offer a fee the money is pushed back into 
 my hands with the words, "Pour les blessees." 
 This is the language of the women — "pour les 
 blessees/' No service is too great for the 
 wounded. Weeping women stop to tell each 
 other their stories. Vainly I search for signs of 
 heartlessness or gaiety. The Montmartre dis- 
 trict is closed. The paint is peeling from the 
 front of the Moulin Rouge, and the theater door 
 sags on its hinges. The Folies Bergeres was 
 open and I went there. But it was a dreary per- 
 formance—no lightness, no gay little jokes, no 
 evening dresses. Even the street women wore 
 black and plied their trade cheerlessly. I re- 
 member the conversation of my neighbors in a 
 
 63 
 
SHOET EATIONS 
 
 restaurant. Unknown woman to soldier home 
 on leave, " Can't you stay over this evening? " 
 Soldier : " No." Woman : " I don't want any 
 money; I want to be with you and talk." Sol- 
 dier: "Why?" Woman: "Paris is so bor- 
 ing; there are no men." 
 
 It is a curious anomaly that in all Paris there 
 is no "peace movement/' yet there as nowhere 
 else one can talk peace. The soldiers in the hos- 
 pital listen eagerly to my tales of the Social Dem- 
 ocrats in Germany. I suggest internal revolu- 
 tion rather than smashing by an outside force 
 as a way of ending war and militarism. To this 
 they agree. But how reach Social Democrats and 
 start revolution? That is the problem. To ne- 
 gotiate with the German government they be- 
 lieve impossible. The Government is not to be 
 trusted. It would lie and there would be an- 
 other war. Germany must be defeated because 
 that will defeat militarism, end war, and bring 
 permanent peace. Germany bitter, relentless, 
 ugly and at bay; France tragic, proud, suffer- 
 ing and resolute; England annoyed, reluctant, 
 capable, and sure; and all determined to fight 
 the thing through to a finish. Is there a way 
 out? When will it end? "I don't know when 
 
 64 
 
NURSING THE WOUNDED IN PARIS 
 
 the war will end," says a soldier, "but I know 
 where it will end — in the trenches." More and 
 more it grows clear that the test is to be endur- 
 ance, not victories. 
 
 One day I visited the battle-field of the Marne. 
 This is twenty miles or more from the front. 
 Yet at the Marne new trenches are being dug. 
 France is covered with trenches; as my train 
 sped to Boulogne soldiers were building them 
 to the railroad track. From day to day as battle 
 rages a trench may be taken. But how can either 
 side beat back over miles and miles of trenches? 
 Meanwhile human life ebbs out The fields of the 
 Marne are one vast cemetery. The land is dot- 
 ted with little white crosses. Yet from this land 
 the peasant gathers his crop. Never has the 
 ground been more fertile. With a crack of his 
 whip the driver points to a great open meadow. 
 " There," he says, " four thousand Germans were 
 burned to death, and to-day we are gathering 
 the biggest hay crop the land has known." 
 
 On one of my last days in Paris I went to the 
 Invalides. Some wounded soldiers were being 
 decorated. The place was packed. Weeping 
 relatives came to honor their brave men. A 
 mother with a baby stands beside me. Tears are 
 
 65 
 
SHOKT EATIONS 
 GOUVERNEMENT MILITAtRE DE PARIS 
 
 PREFECTURE DE POLICE 
 
 L4z&2scLce (^t^i^ra^^-i^-^t^-^^^*^A^ 
 
 Pour lea personnes voyagaant 
 
 Kaadd- 
 
 Prenoms ^&(%>t/^ 
 
 Nationality >£L&ittgsk^&*iSLt**i4. Cheveux (^l^jC*^*^ 
 
 Profession ^J=x*t*£tsi<v*<&4~eJL>£- 
 
 a Ivic ycte t t e . 
 en tramway. 
 
 en chemin de fer. 
 
 Signojement : 
 
 Barbe Tl__i?L — „ 
 
 ■2 k, Signes particulierii apparests : 
 
 z 
 
 uurecm^porteur : 
 Destination pour les voyageuri en chemin d| fer 
 
 ^POU^nelivre bJkl&U^^, leJLJL&4±z£l915 
 
 Lewomipi^g^iyS de Police, 
 
 Penms valable du < v (Z*0^/(- au 
 
 Reenter & loutc riuraiS 
 
 Tout stranger porteur de ce sanf-conduit est term de presenter a toute requi- 
 sition des autorites soit son pcrmis de sejoor, soit son passeport, 1'uu et l'autro 
 munis de sa photographie. 
 
 A f acsimilie of the safe conduct given the author to the battlefield of the 
 
 Marne. 
 
 66 
 
NUBSING THE WOUNDED IN PAEIS 
 
 on her cheeks, but pride shines in her eyes as a 
 blind husband is led to his place. Then a band 
 strikes up, and out across the courtyard move a 
 hundred legless, armless and blind men. The 
 Commander-in-Chief is bestowing kisses and pin- 
 ning on medals. I shut my eyes. I see France 
 as she will be in a few years — swarming with 
 cripples. I see young men made old and help- 
 less, sitting in chimney corners, silently finger- 
 ing medals. 
 
 67 
 
CHAPTER yi 
 
 LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 WHILE in Holland I visited a Belgian refu- 
 gee camp. The children struck me as 
 particularly pathetic. On one occasion I dis- 
 covered a small boy hiding in the bushes and 
 sobbing with fear. Some Dutch soldiers were 
 marching down the road. He had mistaken them 
 for Germans. The horror of the German descent 
 upon his land had left its mark. I related this 
 incident to a Dr. Aletta Jacobs who, with some 
 other Dutch women, had had charge of a refugee 
 camp. It was then she told me of a little Bel- 
 gian refugee who had come to her early in the 
 war. I took down the parts as she gave them, 
 and can vouch for the truth of the following 
 story. 
 
 It was a warm summer's day in late August. 
 No men were visible in the Belgian hamlet. 
 The women reaped in the fields; the insects 
 hummed in the dry warm air; the house doors 
 
 68 
 
LITTLE BEOTHER 
 
 stood open. On a bed in a room in one of the 
 cottages lay a woman. Beside her sat a small 
 boy. He was still, but alert. His eyes fol- 
 lowed the buzzing flies. With a bit of paper he 
 drove the intruders from the bed. His mother 
 slept. It was evident from the pale, drawn face 
 that she was ill. 
 
 Suddenly the dreaming, silent summer day was 
 broken by the sound of clattering hoofs. Some 
 one was riding hurriedly through the town. 
 
 The woman moved uneasily. Her eyes opened. 
 She smiled at the little boy. 
 
 " What is it, dear? " 
 
 The boy went to the window. Women were 
 gathering in the street. He told his mother and 
 hurried from the room. Her eyes grew troubled. 
 In a few minutes the child was back, breathless 
 and excited. 
 
 " O, mother, mother, the Germans are com- 
 ing! " 
 
 The woman braced herself against the shock. 
 At first she hardly grasped the news. Then her 
 face whitened, her body quivered and became con- 
 vulsed. Pain sprang to her eyes, driving out 
 fear; beads of perspiration stood on her fore- 
 head ; a little animal cry of pain broke from her 
 
 69 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 lips. The boy gazed at her paralyzed, horrified ; 
 then he flung himself down beside the bed and 
 seized his mother's hand. 
 
 " What is it, mother, what is it? " 
 
 The paroxysm of pain passed; the woman's 
 body relaxed, her hand reached for the boy's head 
 and stroked it. " It 's all right, my son." Then 
 as the pain began again, "Quick, sonny, bring 
 auntie." 
 
 The boy darted from the room. Auntie was 
 the woman doctor of B. He found her in the 
 Square. The townspeople were wildly excited. 
 The Germans were coming. But the boy thought 
 only of his mother. He tugged at auntie's sleeve. 
 His frenzied efforts at last caught her attention. 
 She saw he was in need and went with him. 
 
 Agonizing little moans issued from the house 
 as they entered. In an instant the midwife un- 
 derstood. She wanted to send the boy away, but 
 she must have help. Who was there to fetch and 
 carry? The neighbors, terrified at their danger, 
 were making plans for departure. She let the 
 boy stay. 
 
 Through the succeeding hour a white-faced lit- 
 tle boy worked manfully. His mother's cries 
 wrung his childish heart. W T hy did babies come 
 
 70 
 
LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 this way? He could not understand. Would 
 she die? Had his birth given such pain? If 
 only she would speak ! And once, as if realizing 
 his necessity, his mother did speak. 
 
 " It 's all right, my son ; it will soon be over." 
 
 That message brought comfort; but his heart 
 failed when the end came. He rushed to the 
 window and put his little hands tight over his 
 ears. It was only for a moment. He was 
 needed. His mother's moans had ceased and a 
 baby's cry broke the stillness. 
 
 The drama of birth passed, the midwife grew 
 restless. She became conscious of the outer 
 world. There were high excited voices; wagons 
 clattered over stones ; moving day had descended 
 on the town. She turned to the window. Neigh- 
 bors with wheelbarrows and carts piled high 
 with household possessions hurried by. They 
 beckoned to her. 
 
 For a moment the woman hesitated. She 
 looked at the mother on the bed, nestling her 
 babe to her breast ; then the panic of the outside 
 world seized her. Quickly she left the room. 
 
 The small boy knelt at his mother's bedside, his 
 little face against hers. Softly he kissed the pale 
 cheek. The boy's heart had become a man's. He 
 
 71 
 
SHOKT EATIONS 
 
 tried by touch and look to speak his love, his 
 sympathy, his admiration. His mother smiled 
 at him as she soothed the baby, glad to be free 
 from pain. But presently the shouted order of 
 the departing townspeople reached her ears. 
 She stirred uneasily. Fear crept into her eyes. 
 Passionately she strained her little one to her. 
 
 " How soon, little son, how soon? " 
 
 The lad, absorbed in his mother, had forgotten 
 the Germans. With a start, he realized the dan- 
 ger. His new-born manhood took command. 
 His father was at the front. He must protect 
 his mother and tiny sister. His mother was too 
 ill to move, but they ought to get away. Who 
 had a wagon? He hurried to the window, but 
 already even the stragglers were far down the 
 road. All but three of the horses had been sent 
 to the front. Those three were now out of sight 
 with their overloaded wagons. The boy stood 
 stupefied and helpless. The woman on the bed 
 stirred. 
 
 " My son," she called. " My son." 
 
 He went to her. 
 
 " You must leave me and go on." 
 
 " I can't, mother." 
 
 The woman drew the boy down beside her. 
 72 
 
LITTLE BKOTHEE 
 
 She knew the struggle to come. How could she 
 make him understand that his life and the baby's 
 meant more to her than her own. Lovingly she 
 stroked the soft cheek. It was a grave, deter- 
 mined little face with very steady eyes. 
 
 " Son, dear, think of little sister. The Ger- 
 mans won't bother with babies. There is n't any 
 milk. Mother hasn't any for her. You must 
 take baby in your strong little arms and run — 
 run with her right out of this land into Holland." 
 
 But he could not be persuaded. The mother 
 understood that love and a sense of duty held 
 him. She gathered the baby in her arms and 
 tried to rise, but the overtaxed heart failed and 
 she fell back half-fainting. The boy brought 
 water and bathed her head until the tired eyes 
 opened. 
 
 " Little son, it will kill mother if you don't 
 go." 
 
 The boy's shoulders shook. He knelt by the 
 bed. A sob broke from him. Then there came 
 the faint far-distant call of the bugle. Fran- 
 tically the mother gathered up her baby and held 
 it out to the boy. 
 
 " For mother's sake, son, for mother." 
 
 In a flash, the boy understood. His mother 
 73 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 had risked her life for the tiny sister. She 
 wanted the baby saved more than anything in the 
 world. He dashed the tears from his eyes. He 
 wound his arms about his mother in a long pas- 
 sionate embrace. 
 
 " I '11 take her, mother ; I '11 get her there 
 safely. 
 
 The bugle grew louder. Through the open 
 window on the far-distant road could be seen a 
 cloud of dust. There was not a moment to lose. 
 Stooping, the boy caught up the red squirming 
 baby. Very tenderly he placed the little body 
 against his breast and buttoned his coat over his 
 burden. 
 
 The sound of marching feet could now be 
 heard. Swiftly he ran to the door. As he 
 reached the threshold he turned. His mother, 
 her eyes shining with love and hope, was waving 
 a last good-by. Down the stairs, out the back 
 door, and across the fields sped the child. Over 
 grass and across streams flew the sure little feet. 
 His heart tugged fiercely to go back, but that look 
 in his mother's face sustained him. 
 
 He knew the road to Holland. It was straight 
 to the north ; but he kept to the fields. He did n't 
 want the baby discovered. Mile after mile, 
 
 74 
 
LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 through hour after hour he pushed on, until twi- 
 light came. He found a little spring and drank 
 thirstily. Then he moistened the baby's mouth. 
 The little creature was very good. Occasionally 
 she uttered a feeble cry, but most of the time she 
 slept. The boy was intensely weary. His feet 
 ached. He sat down under a great tree' and 
 leaned against it. Was it right to keep a baby 
 out all night? Or ought he to go to some farm- 
 house? If he did, would the people take baby 
 away ? His mother had said, " Run straight to 
 Holland.' 7 But Holland was twenty miles away. 
 He opened his coat and looked at the tiny crea- 
 ture. She slept peacefully. 
 
 The night was very warm. He decided to re- 
 main where he was. It had grown dark. The 
 trees and bushes loomed big. His heart beat 
 quickly. He was glad of the warm, soft, live 
 little creature in his arms. He had come on this 
 journey for his mother, but suddenly his boy's 
 heart opened to the tiny clinging thing at his 
 breast. His little hand stroked the baby ten- 
 derly. Then he stooped, and softly his lips 
 touched the red wrinkled face. Presently his lit- 
 tle body relaxed and he slept. He had walked 
 eight miles. Through the long night the deep 
 
 75 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 sleep of exhaustion held him. He lay quite mo- 
 tionless, head and shoulders resting against the 
 tree-trunk, and the new-born babe enveloped in 
 the warmth of his body and arms slept also. 
 The feeble cry of the child woke him. The sun 
 was coming over the horizon and the air was alive 
 with the twitter of birds. 
 
 At first he thought he was at home and had 
 awakened to a long happy summer's day. Then 
 the fretful little cries brought back memory with 
 a rush. His new-born love flooded him. Ten- 
 derly he laid the little sister down. Stretching 
 his stiff and aching body he hurried for water. 
 Very carefully he put a few drops in the little 
 mouth and wet the baby's lips with his little 
 brown finger. This proved soothing, and the 
 cries ceased. The tug of the baby's lips on his 
 finger clutched his heart. The helpless little 
 thing was hungry, and he too was desperately 
 hungry. What should he do? His mother had 
 spoken of milk. He must get milk. Again he 
 gathered up his burden and buttoned his coat. 
 From the rising ground on which he stood he 
 could see a farmhouse with smoke issuing from 
 its chimney. He hurried down to the friendly 
 open door. A kindly woman gave him food. 
 
 76 
 
LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 She recognized him as a little refugee bound for 
 Holland. He had difficulty in concealing the 
 baby, but fortunately she did not cry. The 
 woman saw that he carried something, but when 
 he asked for milk she concluded he had a pet kit- 
 ten. He accepted this explanation. Eagerly he 
 took the coveted milk and started on. 
 
 But day-old babies do not know how to drink. 
 When he dropped milk into the baby's mouth she 
 choked and sputtered. He had to be content 
 with moistening her mouth and giving her a milk- 
 soaked finger. 
 
 Refreshed by sleep and food, the boy set off 
 briskly. Holland did not now seem so far off. 
 If only his mother were safe ! Had the Germans 
 been good to her? These thoughts pursued and 
 tormented him. As before, he kept off the beaten 
 track, making his way through open meadows 
 and patches of trees. But as the day advanced, 
 the heat grew intense. His feet ached, his arms 
 ached, and, worst of all, the baby cried fretfully. 
 At noon he came to a little brook sheltered by 
 trees. He sat down on the bank and dangled 
 his swollen feet in the cool, fresh stream. But 
 his tiny sister still cried. Suddenly a thought 
 came to him. Placing the baby on his knees he 
 
 77 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 undid the towel that enveloped her. There had 
 been no time for clothes. Then he dipped a 
 dirty pocket handkerchief in the brook and gently 
 sponged the hot, restless little body. Very ten- 
 derly he washed the little arms and legs. That 
 successfully accomplished he turned the tiny 
 creature and bathed the small back. Evidently 
 this was the proper treatment, for the baby grew 
 quiet. His heart swelled with pride. Rever- 
 ently he wrapped the towel around the naked 
 little one, and administering a few drops of milk, 
 again went on. 
 
 All through that long hot afternoon he toiled. 
 His footsteps grew slower and slower; he 
 covered diminishing distances. Frequently he 
 stopped to rest, and now the baby had begun 
 again to cry fitfully. At one time his strength 
 failed. Then he placed the baby under a tree 
 and rising on his knees uttered a prayer : — 
 
 " O God, she 's such a little thing, help me to 
 get her there." 
 
 Like a benediction came the cool breeze of the 
 sunset hour, bringing renewed strength. 
 
 In the afternoon of the following day, a wagon 
 stopped before a Belgian Refugee camp in Hol- 
 
 78 
 
LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 land. Slowly and stiffly a small boy slid to the 
 ground. He had been picked up just over the 
 border by a friendly farmer and driven to camp. 
 He was dirty, bedraggled, and footsore. Very 
 kindly the ladies' committee received him. He 
 was placed at a table and a bowl of hot soup was 
 set before him. He ate awkwardly with his left 
 hand. His right hand held something beneath 
 his coat, which he never for a moment forgot. 
 The women tried to get his story, but he remained 
 strangely silent. His eyes wandered over the 
 room and back to their faces. He seemed to be 
 testing them. Not for an hour, not until there 
 was a faint stirring in his coat, did he disclose 
 his burden. Then, going to her whom he had 
 chosen as most to be trusted, he opened his jacket. 
 In a dirty towel lay a naked, miserably thin, 
 three-days-old baby. 
 
 Mutely holding out the forlorn object, the boy 
 begged help. Bit by bit they got his story. 
 Hurriedly a Belgian Refugee mother was sent for. 
 She was told what had happened, and she took 
 the baby to her breast. Jealously the boy stood 
 guard while his tiny sister had her first real meal. 
 But the spark of life was very low. 
 
 For two days the camp concentrated on the 
 79 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 tiny creature. The boy never left his sister's 
 side. But her ordeal had been too great. It was 
 only a feeble flicker of life at best, and during the 
 third night the little flame went out. The boy 
 was utterly crushed. He had now but one 
 thought — to reach his mother. It was impos- 
 sible to keep the news from him longer. He 
 would have gone in search. Gently he was told 
 of the skirmish that had destroyed the Belgian 
 hamlet. There were no houses or people in the 
 town that had once been his home. 
 
 " That is his story/' ended the friendly Dutch 
 woman. 
 
 " And his father? " I inquired. 
 
 " Killed at the front/' was the reply. 
 
 I rose to go, but I could not get the boy out of 
 my mind. What a world! What intolerable 
 suffering Was there no way out? Then the 
 ever-recurring phrase of the French and Belgian 
 soldiers came to me. When I had shuddered at 
 ghastly wounds, at death, at innumerable white 
 crosses on a bloody battlefield, invariably, in dry, 
 cynical, hopeless tones, the soldier would make 
 the one comment, — 
 
 <e O'est la guerre; que voulez-vous? " 
 80 
 
PART II 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THE SCANDINAVIAN COUNTRIES 
 
 'T "K TILL you go to Germany? " 
 
 V V It seemed a large order after my ex- 
 perience in Germany in 1915. I and my ances- 
 tors are American, but my name is wrong. 
 Madeleine (French) Zabriskie (Polish) Doty 
 (derived from the English Doten). 
 
 "We want the truth," said the editor. 
 " You 're a neutral, you want peace ; we think 
 you '11 tell it." 
 
 That settled it. To be asked to tell the truth is 
 a proposition not to reject. 
 
 The quickest route to Germany lay through 
 Norway, for all steamers, both Dutch and Nor- 
 wegian, must sail around the north of Scotland. 
 
 On the 15th of July I board the Kristiania- 
 fjord. I have never been to Norway. It is like 
 going to Greenland. My heart is in my boots. I 
 feel very small and without courage. At the last 
 moment I want to desert. As the steamer pulls 
 out of the dock New York seems a heavenly city 
 
 83 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 and my family waving a last farewell infinitely 
 precious. I feel I am being cast out of para- 
 dise. 
 
 But it is a jolly ship's company. In a day my 
 fears are forgotten and I am absorbed in the ad- 
 venture ahead. Every one on the steamer has a 
 mission. There are some naturalized German- 
 Americans, many Swedes and a few Norwegians. 
 It is a splendid voyage, with calm seas and smil- 
 ing skies. Each day the days grow longer and 
 more beautiful. On the tenth day the sun is set- 
 ting at 10 p. m. 
 
 Not until that tenth night do we begin to dis- 
 cuss the war. We are nearing the north of Scot- 
 land, the scene of the disaster to Lord Kitchener 
 and his men, and we talk of mines and subma- 
 rines. Life preservers are carefully inspected. 
 But at break of day English officers board our 
 ship and take us safely into Kirkwall harbor. 
 Here we lie for two days, while passports, cabins 
 and our persons are examined. 
 
 Presently I am summoned before an English 
 officer. He holds two cable messages. I reach 
 for them eagerly, but he pauses before making de- 
 livery. " You '11 have to explain these," he says. 
 One from an unduly admiring friend begins 
 
 84 
 
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THE SCANDINAVIAN CQUNTKIES 
 
 " Brave spirit." TJie other, from my father, tells 
 of constant thought. He wired : " Watching 
 every night from the hill at sunset." 
 
 This, coupled, with the " Brave spirit " of the 
 other cable and the fact that I am going to Ger- 
 many, are too much for the English officer. He 
 feels sure I mean to torpedo the King of England 
 at sunset. Fortunately, the last words of the 
 home cable are " Mother preserving." The of- 
 ficers mother also puts up jam. His fears relax. 
 We have a good laugh. 
 
 There is one trifling excitement during the de- 
 tention at Kirkwall. A crowd gathers one after- 
 noon at the ship's side. A German stowaway lias 
 been discovered. He is being lowered into an 
 English boat. There are many little expressions 
 of sympathy. They come from the pro-Germans 
 and Swedes. A big Swede takes up a collection 
 for the prisoner. It is quite evident where Swed- 
 ish sympathy lies. 
 
 That night we cross the North Sea. Not many 
 of us sleep, but in the morning we are lying off 
 the Norwegian coast. There is a dense fog. 
 When it lifts our ship is lying between masses of 
 rocks so near it seems possible to jump to them 
 from the ship's deck. Soon we begin to steam up 
 
 85 
 
SHOKT KATIONS 
 
 the narrow fjord to Bergen. Each moment the 
 shores come in closer and rise higher. The sea 
 and sky are a steely blue, the air as clear and 
 fresh as on a brilliant winter's day. 
 
 Everywhere the people crowd to the shore to 
 wave a greeting. Norway presents a mixture of 
 the crude, rugged freshness of America, and the 
 finished grandeur of Switzerland. We land at 
 Bergen and there take train to Christiania. I 
 take three days to make the trip and penetrate 
 deep into a fjord and climb to the top of a snow- 
 covered mountain. 
 
 There is something almost sinister in the gran- 
 deur of the scenery. It is overpowering to the 
 uninitiated. It is bound to produce people of 
 originality and inner resources. Frequently 
 families living deep in one fjord have never 
 known what lies on the other side of a towering 
 mountain. 
 
 There is no trail. Everywhere on my trip I 
 meet young men and women mountain climbing. 
 The women, like the men, wear knickerbockers. 
 People are on their summer vacations. There is 
 no sign of war, nor is there any sign of war in 
 Christiania. 
 
 That city, lying among its hills and curving 
 86 
 
THE SCANDINAVIAN COUNTEIES 
 
 water front, might be mistaken at first glance for 
 San Francisco and the Golden Gate. But the 
 city has the earmarks of age, and romance yet 
 lacking in San Francisco. It is a miniature 
 Paris. It is full of the spirit of Bohemia. Its 
 restaurants abound in good food, gay music and 
 interesting people. 
 
 Norway is teeming with originality. It is not 
 smooth running and well ordered, but it has 
 greatness and force. Hardly a picture or piece 
 of sculpture in its gallery of modern art but has 
 character and meaning. Much is crude, but all 
 expressive of life and virility. One no longer 
 wonders that this is the land of Ibsen and Bjorn- 
 son. 
 
 Norway is a race of individualists. German 
 uniformity, Germany's organization and German 
 culture are repellent to every fiber of the Norwe- 
 gian being. Norway, the land of viking ships 
 and adventurers, could not produce a race of obe- 
 dient people. Therefore Norwegian sympathy is 
 with France and England, for Norway believes 
 these countries stand for freedom, democracy 
 and a republican form of government. 
 
 From Christiania I take a sleeper to Goteborg, 
 Sweden. When I awake in the morning it is to 
 
 87 
 
SHOET RATIONS 
 
 find myself in a new land. In my school geog- 
 raphy Norway and Sweden seemed one and the 
 same. But Goteborg is as alien to Christiania as 
 Boston is to New York. This city is smooth run- 
 ning and well ordered; no crowd, no bustle, no 
 Bohemia. Neatly numbered little blue and white 
 cars run in regular circles about the town. The 
 atmosphere is that of spotless town, where 
 they always use sapolio. It is quaint and charm- 
 ing, but not exciting. Sweden, like Germany, is 
 well organized. The Swedish and German tem- 
 peraments are akin, methodical and thorough, 
 with a distaste for the erratic, the erratic which 
 so frequently breeds genius. 
 
 In the afternoon I take the train from Gote- 
 borg to Copenhagen. It is too late when I reach 
 there to form an impression. But I am conscious 
 of flying taxis and streams of people. I have 
 reached a seething metropolis which makes Chris- 
 tiania and Goteborg seem tiny by comparison. 
 
 Copenhagen combines all races. It has canals, 
 people with wooden shoes and sturdy Dutch tem- 
 perament. It has a few mildly interesting side- 
 walk cafes. It has suburban English houses and 
 Tommies who go out Sunday with their best girls. 
 It has a great beer garden in the center of the 
 
 88 
 
THE SCANDINAVIAN COUNTRIES 
 
 city, called Tivoli, like the Zoological Garden of 
 Berlin. Sundays and evenings Tivoli is crowded 
 with bourgeois, whole families, fathers, mothers 
 and children who come to enjoy the fun. Beer 
 flows, bands play and people pass and repass. 
 Denmark absorbs all races and elements. 
 
 But the Danish people, like the Norwegian, are 
 heart and soul with the Allies. Not so much be- 
 cause of love for England and France as through 
 hatred of Germany. Germany has snatched part 
 of their land and bitterness is in their hearts. 
 They will not willingly assist Germany. All the 
 frontier mail is examined, for recently it was 
 found thin slabs of butter were being sent to the 
 enemy by letter postage. 
 
 Many Danish merchants have made vast for- 
 tunes out of German necessity. But these peo- 
 ple are held in contempt. In the early days they 
 aided in feeding the German army. This they 
 did by exporting great cans of prepared meat 
 called "goolash." Now these people are nick- 
 named the " goolash." They struggle to disguise 
 their identity and their nouveau riche condition. 
 Old telephone and automobile numbers are in 
 great demand and ramshackle old houses are 
 bought at exorbitant prices. 
 
 89 
 
SHOKT KATIONS 
 
 The atmosphere of Copenhagen is distressing. 
 It is tense, like a strung bow. It seems to await 
 some dire fate, and it reeks with money made 
 from dying humanity. Never has the city been 
 so prosperous. Three times the ordinary num- 
 ber of taxicabs ply the streets. Yet, in spite of 
 great business activity, the populace is unset- 
 tled, expectant, dreading it knows not what. No- 
 where are there worse stories of German atroci- 
 ties. These tales sink in. One begins to under- 
 stand what the early American settlers must 
 have felt with a band of savage red Indians just 
 beyond the next ridge. 
 
 Daily I grow more nervous. Fear possesses 
 me. It is said that every woman who enters Ger- 
 many is subjected to a sickening and disgusting 
 personal search, and the tales of hunger and im- 
 prisonment, the fate of all foreigners in Ger- 
 many, are appalling. Can I carry my task 
 through? 
 
 I dine with an American friend. He has be- 
 come completely dominated by the atrocity 
 stories. He almost orders me home. " America 
 forgets," he declares, " that Europe is at war and 
 Germany is no place for a woman." 
 
 I cannot sleep. Only pride holds me to my 
 90 
 
THE SCANDINAVIAN COUNTRIES 
 
 purpose. I am told that " The New York Tri- 
 bune " is despised in Germany and " The Chicago 
 Tribune " tolerated. I destroy all papers except 
 my " Chicago Tribune " credentials. I have no 
 scruples about this, for I am writing the same 
 article for both papers and I am out in search of 
 the truth and do not wish to hurt any nation. 
 
 Moreover, I have an errand of mercy in Ger- 
 many. " The Christian Work Fund " for starv- 
 ing children of the New York Church Peace 
 Union has given me f 500 for German war or- 
 phans and starving babies, with a promise of 
 more later. I clutch this firmly in my hand and 
 proceed to the German Embassy at Copenhagen. 
 
 Here I wait all day. Any minute my number 
 may be called, so I dare not go out to lunch. 
 There is a great crowd of people, all seeking pass- 
 ports. Most are turned away. Each day it 
 grows more difficult to enter Germany. Finally, 
 at 5 o'clock, my turn comes. My credentials are 
 entirely satisfactory. My papers are stamped 
 and passed without question. It is very reas- 
 suring. 
 
 But then began dreary days of waiting. Not 
 for four days after my passport is vised can I 
 leave Copenhagen. Three of my pictures and all 
 
 91 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 marks of identification are being sent to the fron- 
 tier. It is the waiting that is nerve-racking. 
 Meanwhile all Copenhagen seemed bent on tell- 
 ing me dire tales of the " Barbara." 
 
 A Norwegian acquaintance who is on her way 
 from Holland to Denmark through Germany 
 twice sends word she is arriving. Eagerly I 
 meet her train, but she never appears. What has 
 happened? Is she imprisoned in Germany? 
 Then I bethink myself to telegraph a German 
 friend and ask her to meet me in Hamburg. In 
 one week I sent three telegrams, but received no 
 reply. It is very weird. I have the sensation 
 that I am hurling myself into unknown space 
 where I shall be cut off from all world communi- 
 cation. 
 
 Then the food problem troubles me. My Den- 
 mark friends urge me to secure government au- 
 thorization to carry a small stock of supplies. 
 This I do and purchase eight pounds of butter 
 and a half yard of sausage. 
 
 Finally, the morning of my departure arrives. 
 I and my three bags, my package of butter and 
 my half yard of sausage are duly deposited in 
 the train. At the last moment comes a wire from 
 Germany. Not from my friend, but from a 
 
 92 
 
THE SCANDINAVIAN COUNTRIES 
 
 friend of my friend. I can only guess why this 
 is. Perhaps my friend is in prison. 
 
 The telegram invites me to come to Munich, 
 but my ticket and passport are made out for 
 Hamburg. It is too late to change. I shall 
 know no one in Hamburg. If only I could speak 
 German. Speech is a valuable asset. Most 
 things can be explained, but I shall be tongue- 
 tied. I do not feel at all brave. It is like going 
 into battle. I ? m shivering, homesick, and ter- 
 ribly excited. 
 
 As the train speeds on its way I study my train 
 companions. There are three Chinese students, a 
 German merchant, and a woman who says she 
 is Swiss. The woman is very friendly. She 
 speaks to each of us and asks our mission. She 
 has traveled from Switzerland through Germany 
 and Denmark to Sweden and is now on her way 
 back. This is a trip difficult to make unless one 
 has powerful friends. 
 
 She speaks English fluently. Perhaps she is 
 working for Germany. Anyway she is very 
 friendly, and very appreciative of my desire to 
 help German babies. She is on her way to Ham- 
 burg. I ask to go with her. If she is a spy I 
 could be with no safer companion. It is terrible 
 
 93 
 
SHOET EATIONS 
 
 to be so suspicious. That is one of the deadly 
 features of war — you trust no one. 
 
 As the train speeds on and we reach the Dan- 
 ish frontier we see small encampments of sol- 
 diers. We are entering Germany by way of 
 Warnemude. When we reach the water front 
 a German boat is waiting to carry us to the other 
 side. It is a trip of about two hours. As we 
 cross this tiny piece of the Baltic Sea there are 
 no signs of the German fleet. We probably are 
 too far from Kiel Bay. 
 
 The German territory on which we land is a 
 seashore resort. There is a great stretch of 
 beach dotted with sun umbrellas and a few peo- 
 ple walking aimlessly about. Somewhere a band 
 plays faintly. It is very dreary. Like a pleas- 
 ure resort on a rainy day. 
 
 As we land we are conducted into a long 
 wooden building. The first great ordeal is about 
 to begin. I stick close to my traveling compan- 
 ion. She is given No. 50 and I No. 51. My heart 
 goes like a triphammer. Suppose they don't pass 
 me. My companion is summoned first, but a mo- 
 ment later my turn comes. I am shown into an 
 inner office. I find myself in the midst of a little 
 knot of soldiers. At a desk is an ofiicer asking 
 
 94 
 
THE SCANDINAVIAN COUNTRIES 
 
 questions and taking answers. I stammer and 
 stutter ; the few words of German I know desert 
 me. I thrust out my papers desperately. These 
 have been translated into German. Their con- 
 tents are magical. That money for suffering 
 babies softens German hearts. An officer who 
 speaks English addresses me. 
 
 " Where are you going? " A. — To Hamburg. 
 
 " Where do you expect to stay? " A. — I 
 don't know ; I 'm traveling with a. friend. 
 
 " What is your friend's name? " At last I am 
 caught. I grow very red. I realize I have never 
 asked my companion's name. 
 
 The German officers gaze at me stolidly, wait- 
 ing an answer. Finally I blurt out : "I don't 
 know her name, but she 's No. 50." 
 
 Carefully they consult their list. It is as I 
 guessed. No. 50 ' is eminently satisfactory. 
 With utmost courtesy my passport is vise and my 
 luggage stamped and passed unopened. I am 
 the first to leave the little building. The only 
 article that troubles the English-speaking officer 
 is a box of American crackers. 
 
 " You 'd better conceal those or it may cause 
 jealousy that we let you keep them. We have 
 made an exception in your case." There isn't 
 
 95 
 
SHOKT RATIONS 
 
 an inch of room in my bag, so I reply : " I '11 
 throw them away/' and raise my hand to do so. 
 " Oh, don't do that ! " The command comes so 
 quickly and earnestly that in a flash I realize 
 every speck of food in Germany is prized. So 
 I board the train with crackers, butter, dangling 
 sausage and unopened baggage. 
 
 It is nearly two hours before the other passen- 
 gers are released. To travel in wartime requires 
 patience. Many of the women have flushed 
 faces. It is evident their examination has not 
 been agreeable. No. 50 arrives shortly. She, 
 too, is flushed. She says she has recently had 
 an operation and wears a support. This sur- 
 gical harness she was obliged to remove for in- 
 spection. Why this is if, as I suspect, she is 
 known to the German government I do not know. 
 Anyway, I have been lucky. My papers are 
 good. 
 
 All this time the train has been standing in a 
 long, wooden railroad shed. There has been 
 nothing to see. As we pull out my eyes sweep the 
 country. There are no trenches and no body of 
 soldiers. To the casual observer it looks as if 
 the Danes could walk straight into Germany. 
 
 As we speed through the country we pass great 
 96 
 
THE SCANDINAVIAN COUNTRIES 
 
 stretches of flat, barren, uninteresting pasture 
 land. Here and there are herds of cows. My 
 companion informs me we are passing through 
 the dairy district. Once my companion grabs 
 my arm excitedly to point to a field of wheat 
 (white flour) . There is a dining car on the train. 
 It has been said that through trains furnish good 
 meals and so deceive traveling foreigners as to 
 internal conditions. 
 
 This dinner is fourth rate, with a fourth rate 
 service — a total change from the well run din- 
 ing car of a year ago. There is soup, fish, a tiny 
 slab of meat, vegetables and a pudding. The 
 quantity is small and the quality poor and the 
 preparation atrocious. The latter defect is not 
 the fault of the cook. It is due to lack of fat, 
 lack of sugar, lack of seasoning. It has all been 
 boiled and is tasteless. It reminds me of prison 
 fare. The pudding cannot be eaten. It is a 
 gray mass and tastes like bran. It is without 
 sweetening. A soldier manfully eating his sees 
 me in the act of swallowing my first mouthful. 
 He grins a sardonic grin. It is practically the 
 only smile I see in all Prussia. 
 
 In three hours we reach Hamburg. If there 
 had been a carriage or taxi at the station it had 
 
 97 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 gone when we reached the entrance. We eventu- 
 ally secure an aged porter to carry our luggage to 
 the Reichshof Hotel across the way. The sta- 
 tion is full of soldiers, pale-faced, worried and 
 silent. They are lining up to take night trains 
 for the front. 
 
 At the hotel my companion and I secure ad- 
 jacent single rooms. It is a great relief to have 
 her German tongue at my service. I don't open 
 my mouth. The Reichshof is perhaps a second 
 rate or third rate hotel, but I have a perfectly 
 appointed room, with hot and cold running water 
 for 3 marks 50 pfennigs a day (about 90 cents). 
 German hotel men have resolutely kept hotels 
 open at great loss and have not raised room 
 rates. 
 
 I am too much excited to go to bed, and suggest 
 a walk. Through silent, deserted streets my 
 companion and I make our way. We come to 
 the great sheet of water in the center of Ham- 
 burg. At intervals bright lights from a cafe 
 send their shimmering rays flashing and dancing 
 across the water. But all is silent and still as 
 though some great calamity were upon the city. 
 
 We enter the cafe. It is a huge place and has 
 hundreds of little tables. Only two are occu- 
 
 98 
 
THE SCANDINAVIAN COUNTRIES 
 
 pied — one by a group all in mourning. The 
 brilliance of the place exaggerates its big empti- 
 ness. We sit down and order coffee. Presently 
 two cups of steaming black liquid are served. 
 There is no sugar and no milk. My companion 
 calls a waiter. " You ? ve forgotten the milk and 
 sugar." The waiter bows politely. " No, 
 madam," says he. " We have recently been ver- 
 boten to serve either milk or sugar." 
 
 We drink our coffee in silence. It is coffee 
 " ersatz," which means coffee mixed with a sub- 
 stitute. A lump rises in my throat. I see the 
 tired, worried soldiers with their lean faces. I 
 looked at the little group in mourning across 
 the way. I taste my undrinkable coffee. 
 
 Already the suffering of the people has sunk 
 deep ; an aching pity seizes me. I do not stop to 
 reason whose fault it is. Whether the German 
 government is not the chief culprit for the state 
 of affairs, I only know mankind is being hurt, is 
 being punished. To crush people makes them 
 ugly. 
 
 " This has got to stop," I whisper to my com- 
 panion, and she nods. 
 
 99 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 HAMBURG UNDER THE HAND OF DEATH 
 
 August 10th. 
 
 I AWOKE to find myself in Germany. I 
 sprang from bed and crept to the window. 
 Beneath lay an empty courtyard — quiet, still, 
 no sign of life. I press the electric button and 
 order breakfast. A pale, worried little man ar- 
 rives with a tray. There is the same undrink- 
 able coffee of the night before, a tiny drop of blue 
 watery-milk in a doll's pitcher no bigger than 
 my thumb, no sugar, some black, sour, uneatable 
 bread, and a small saucer of marmalade. Irri- 
 tation seizes me. How can I spend weeks in 
 Germany without proper food? I remember my 
 box of American crackers, and the Danish butter 
 and sausage reposing in the hotel refrigerator. 
 But I have the decency not to send for them. I 
 have at most some weeks of discomfort, the Ger- 
 man people months of patient suffering. The 
 Danish food shall go to a German friend. By 
 the time I am dressed, my traveling companion, 
 
 100 
 
UNDER THE HAND OF DEATH 
 
 No. 50, has joined me. We decide to make a tour 
 of the city. It is a gray, sunless day. The 
 weather increases the gloom of the city. Only 
 a few people are upon the street; old people or 
 very young people and tiny children. But occa- 
 sionally we pass a silent, dejected group lined up 
 before a meat shop. It is a meat day. Working 
 women with babies in their arms, or tiny chil- 
 dren carrying baskets, or old decrepit men and 
 women clutching a Government meat card, pa- 
 tiently wait their turn. The shop door flies open, 
 three or four are admitted, and a miserable half- 
 pound of meat portioned out. 
 
 Except for these food purchasers, the city 
 seems actionless. We enter a book shop and ask 
 for a map. But to sell a plan of Hamburg is 
 verhoten. So many things are verboten. Per- 
 haps that accounts for the inactivity. Store win- 
 dows present a fine display, but inside the shop 
 is silent and empty. 
 
 Even in the business section there is little life. 
 We find a small boat that makes a three hours' 
 trip about the harbor, and take it. The great 
 wharves are peopleless, no hurrying men, no 
 swinging derricks, no smoke issuing from smoke- 
 stacks or funnels. In the docks lie big and little 
 
 101 
 
SHOKT EATIONS 
 
 boats, rusty, paintless, deserted. Tlie great 
 Imperator, like a towering monster, commands 
 the center. The paint is peeling from its sides. 
 Its brass is dull, some dirty stained blankets flap 
 on an upper deck. Like a thing alive it seems 
 stricken with plague. Its* proud title Imperator 
 is gone, and in its place is the word Cap Polonia. 
 Except for our tug and two others, no vessels 
 move upon the water. There are no whistles, no 
 chug-chug and swish of passing boats, no vibrant 
 thrilling life. Hamburg is a city of sleepers. 
 Its big hotels, its many stores, its impressive 
 buildings stretch out endlessly, but within all is 
 still. All that modern industry and the in- 
 genuity of man can achieve has here been flung 
 upon the land, and then the force that created it 
 has vanished, leaving these great monuments to 
 rot, to rust, and to crumble. The tragedy of un- 
 used treasures is as horrible as rows of dead. A 
 city seems visibly dying. 
 
 Faint from want of food, we leave the boat to 
 seek a restaurant. We find one directly oppo- 
 site the Hamburg-American docks, on the hill- 
 side. We seat ourselves on the outdoor porch 
 which commands the harbor. As we do so, we 
 notice a long line of women and children filing 
 
 102 
 
UNDER THE HAND OF DEATH 
 
 into the big Hamburg-American buildings. 
 Each bears a pail. When they emerge it is with 
 steaming contents. The docks have been turned 
 into big feeding kitchens. When the women 
 leave, a whistle blows. Then from every direc- 
 tion come old men and young boys. They come 
 running, hopping, jumping, each striving to be 
 first, driven by hunger, or by fear that the last 
 may have nothing. The police keep them in or- 
 der. They file into the big building to eat. 
 
 The meal furnished us is scanty, but after this 
 scene it seems bountiful. There is soup, fish, 
 meat, vegetables, fruit, and cheese. The bread 
 and meat are to be had only with cards. Like 
 the day before, the food is watery and tasteless. 
 It is such food as is served in institutions. 
 Prison diet does not promote health or strength. 
 One can live on it, but patriotism and temper 
 suffer. I discovered there are two kinds of bread, 
 one a small roll, its substance only slightly dark. 
 This is very eatable, and quite different from the 
 ordinary black bread. Six of these small rolls 
 can be had on a daily bread card. This bread, 
 with a piece of Swiss cheese, do much to restore 
 me to cheerfulness. 
 
 When we have finished, No. 50 suggests a trip 
 103 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 to the Bismarck Denkmal. She is an ardent ad- 
 mirer of Bismarck and all German officials. It 
 is only a short walk to the Denkmal. It is situ- 
 ated on a small hill, and the gigantic figure is 
 further elevated by a high pedestal, till it towers 
 over the city. 
 
 There is something sinister in the figure. It 
 is clad in armor, and leans on a gigantic sword. 
 It seems to say " no force in the world shall de- 
 ter me; I conquer all." Yet there is weakness 
 behind the strength. As a work of art it is a 
 failure. It is made of square cut stone, placed 
 on square cut stone. This endless multiplicity 
 of exactly similar stones, well ordered and ar- 
 ranged, has the effect of massive greatness. But 
 it is a greatness built from the outside. Be- 
 neath is no inspired central vein of strength. 
 
 It is different with French sculpture. Rodin's 
 figures, for instance, personify power. The 
 power that arises from depicting the fire, energy, 
 and originality of the human soul. But my 
 companion is enthralled. This massive great- 
 ness of arrangements means to her strength. 
 
 " Is n't it wonderful? " she breathes. " If 
 only he were alive, how different it would be! 
 Germany would conquer all." 
 
 104 
 
iir i t 
 
 THE BISMARCK DENKMAL 
 At the Foot of This Statue a Mother Was Selling- Her Child 
 
UNDER THE HAND OF DEATH 
 
 The words have hardly left her lips when we 
 hear voices. A crowd of children is gathering 
 just below. School is out, and they are sur- 
 rounding an object of interest. One or two 
 women join them. There is no passing populace 
 to swell the throng. We approach and see in the 
 center of the crowd of children a woman crouched 
 upon a bench. She is dirty, ragged, and dark 
 in coloring. She may be Armenian or Italian. 
 On the ground at her feet is a baby just big 
 enough to walk. It also is dirty, and possesses 
 only one ragged garment. The mother sits 
 listless, gazing at her child. It is evident she is 
 soon to be a mother again. There is great chat- 
 tering among the children. I turn to my com- 
 panion for explanation. 
 
 " The woman wants to sell her child. She 
 says she has n't anything to eat. She is n't a 
 German mother. Of course, no German mother 
 would do such a thing. You can see she isn't 
 good. She is going to have another baby." 
 
 A school-child gives the toddling baby some 
 cherries. She eats them greedily. My hand goes 
 to my pocket-book, but my companion pulls me 
 away. If I bought the baby, what could I do 
 with her on a trip through Germany? 
 
 107 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 Then my eyes rests on the Bismarck Denkmal. 
 I gaze at that massive, methodical, stolid war god 
 at whose feet this human tragedy is being en- 
 acted. Rage seizes me, and a brilliant and crazy 
 idea comes. Why not blow up the military 
 Denkmals as a way of freeing Germany from the 
 war bug? The Allies are stupidly making 
 women and children suffer, while the military 
 class and militarism flourish. What is wanted 
 is a bomb for each Bismarckian and royal Denk- 
 mal. 
 
 From the Denkmal we go to the residential 
 quarter. We try to get a taxi, but there is none. 
 I saw just three during that day. It has grown 
 to be tea-time. After a short walk, we enter a 
 popular cafe. Here at last is a large group of 
 people. There are many well-dressed women, 
 retired officers or officers home on leave, and 
 some slightly wounded soldiers. The tables in 
 the big building or scattered about on the side- 
 walk are all occupied. A band is playing gay 
 music. On the surface all looks well. But a 
 line of Whitman flashes through my mind: — 
 
 Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death 
 under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones. 
 
 108 
 
UNDER THE HAND OF DEATH 
 
 There is no chatter and no laughter. The 
 faces are lined with sadness. Except among 
 the women, there is no youth. All are shrunken, 
 listless, distraught Coffee " Ersatz " (coffee 
 mixed with a substitute) , and tea " Ersatz " is be- 
 ing served. There is no milk and no sugar. The 
 few cakes are made of an unknown substance. I 
 try one, but cannot swallow it. Only the music 
 is cheerful. There is a revival of band-playing 
 in Germany. It is needed to hide the lack of 
 laughter and talk. 
 
 There are but two topics of conversation — 
 war and food shortage. There is nothing else to 
 discuss, for there is little business, no trade, no 
 reforms, no scientific discoveries, no creative 
 work. Life has become mere existence — a 
 prison existence. Mind and bodies are shrink- 
 ing from a shortage of intellectual and physical 
 nourishment. 
 
 This first day in Germany is the worst. Fresh 
 from war-free countries, the impression is vivid. 
 After a little I become adjusted. All who live in 
 Germany get adjusted. The changes have come 
 gradually. One month sugar stops. When 
 this is an old story, then one must learn to do 
 without milk. Herr Smyth fails one week, and 
 
 109 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 Herr Bauer weeks later. This slow decline 
 blinds Germany to what is really occurring. 
 But the total, seen by a stranger, is appalling. 
 
 Across the street from the cafe is a little cir- 
 cular space with benches. On a bench is seated 
 a tragic, well-dressed mother in deep mourning. 
 Her child plays beside her, innocently happy. 
 He climbs up and down, and finally knocks a 
 paper bag from the bench. A roll tumbles into 
 the dust and darts under the bench, covering it- 
 self with dirt. The mother picks it up, carefully 
 brushes it, and gives it to the child, who eats 
 eagerly. Everywhere are similar pathetic inci- 
 dents. 
 
 My spirits sink lower and lower. " Look 
 here," I say firmly to my companion, " I 've got 
 to have a square meal. We are going to the best 
 and most expensive hotel in town." 
 
 That evening we dine at the Atlantic, and have 
 a meal that is satisfying. By a skilful use of 
 wine, salt, and some stray scraps of fat, the 
 table de'hote dinner is equal to that of a second- 
 rate American hotel. The slice of meat served is 
 no bigger than my hand, brown and juiceless, but 
 the soup, fish, vegetables, and dessert would pass 
 muster anywhere. 
 
 110 
 
UNDER THE HAND OF DEATH 
 
 It seems cruel to eat of Germany's best, but 
 henceforth I decided to live at the most expensive 
 hotels. 
 
 That night a picture flashed before me, It is 
 the vision of a big unoccupied building. In 
 large black letters upon its front is the inscrip- 
 tion: "English Reform Church/' and in its 
 gaping windows are plastered, printed signs read- 
 ing: " Zv, vermieten" (To Let). No wonder 
 God's buildings are to let. God, the Spirit of 
 Love, must have difficulty finding any place to 
 rest these days. 
 
 Next morning my companion and I separate. 
 She starts for Switzerland, and I for Berlin. 
 My inability to speak German is disconcerting. 
 I manage to get on the train, but in the dining- 
 car I am helpless. I content myself with tea, 
 bread, and cheese, the only words I know. In 
 the compartment with me is an attractive young 
 woman and her husband. They offer me maga- 
 zines and papers. I summon up courage to say : 
 " Ich Jcann nicht Deutsch sprechen" and show 
 them my credentials. The young woman is im- 
 mediately interested. She speaks to me in ex- 
 cellent English. 
 
 In May, 1915, I spent ten days in Berlin. 
 Ill 
 
SHOKT RATIONS 
 
 Then English could not be spoken with comfort. 
 Flushed faces and angry looks were the result. 
 To-day English is tolerated. Occasionally, eyes 
 follow me questioningly ; the official class resent 
 it, but the people are always friendly. A year 
 ago there was bitter hatred of America. " Ameri- 
 can bullets " were flung in one's face everywhere. 
 To-day the average person is pathetically eager 
 to be friends. Slowly the people are awakening. 
 For months the newspapers have fed them on the 
 triumphs of Germany and the perfidy of other 
 nations. But these stories of glorious German 
 victories have resulted in — what? A lean and 
 barren country, under-nourishment, death, the 
 hatred of other nations. The people begin to 
 doubt their leaders. 
 
 To call these people " barbars " is an outrage. 
 They are like ourselves, just folks, kindly and 
 generous; deceived and brow-beaten by a ruth- 
 less military group. 
 
 The young woman in the railway carriage be- 
 longs to the well-to-do bourgeoisie. She is eager 
 to talk. " Why," she asks, " does the world think 
 we 're beaten when we have soldiers in Belgium 
 and France? " Often this question is asked. 
 
 Boasting no longer exists. Instead comes the 
 112 
 
UNDER THE HAND OF DEATH 
 
 plaintive query : " Why are we beaten, and why 
 must we suffer? " 
 
 We gaze out of the window as the train speeds 
 on. We pass great stretches of desolate, barren, 
 juiceless land. It is sandy and difficult to culti- 
 vate. It is the worst portion of Germany. A 
 tear is in my companion's eye. "We have got 
 to have food," she avers, and then a moment 
 later: "Oh! why can't we have peace?" 
 
 It is early afternoon when we reach Berlin. I 
 leave the train slowly. When I reach the station 
 entrance the taxis and carriages are all taken. 
 An aged porter with a push-cart volunteers to 
 conduct me to the Adlon. It is Sunday. I fol- 
 low the push-cart through the silent streets, but 
 as we pass the Thiergarten a great throng of peo- 
 ple is visible. They flow in and out about the 
 Hindenburg Denkmal. That figure is made of 
 wood and covered with nails. You pay a small 
 sum, and hammer in a nail. In this manner 
 patriotism and Hindenburg devotion are in- 
 culcated, and the Government gets the money. 
 
 If ever there were a systematic smashing of 
 Denkmals, it would create a busy day for Berlin. 
 There are so many of them. The Thiergarten 
 strasse is lined with ugly monstrosities of roy- 
 
 113 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 alty. Many figures are portraits of English 
 nobility who intermarried with Germans. Evi- 
 dently, whatever comes to Germany becomes Ger- 
 man, for all are decorated with wreaths and 
 flowers. 
 
 But the Sunday crowd that moves about the 
 Thiergarten is not happy. As in Hamburg and 
 elsewhere, the men are old or very young, except 
 for the sprinkling of lean, pale, nerve-racked sol- 
 diers. 
 
 But Berlin has more life than Hamburg. 
 
 It is the busiest spot in Germany. It and the 
 munition districts are the centers of activity. 
 Berlin is more active than it was a year ago. 
 Then action seemed suspended. The city was 
 crowded, but idle. The populace was too tense, 
 excited, and grim to work. It moved restlessly 
 upon the streets, waiting a glorious victory. 
 The future was ignored. A long war was not 
 dreamt of. There was a shortage of fodder, so 
 thousands of cows were killed. This lack of 
 foresight meant in time a shortage of milk and 
 butter. Germany was too sure of triumph to 
 think in terms of years. 
 
 But now conditions have changed. The as- 
 surance and arrogance have vanished. In their 
 
 114 
 
UNDER THE HAND OF DEATH 
 
 place is a dull resignation. All life is centered 
 on mere existence. The wounded who have 
 come back have gone to work. Wagons carrying 
 supplies and old patched taxis returned from the 
 front move upon the streets. The necessities of 
 life must be had. Berlin, the seat of govern- 
 ment, must secure them. 
 
 So on the surface there is bustle and action, 
 and life somewhat resembles the normal. But it 
 is a queer, limited, down-at-the-heel activity. 
 People are upon the streets, but the stores are 
 nearly empty. There is a shortage of things to 
 buy. The very rich still purchase, but cheap 
 things are only to be had with Government 
 cards. 
 
 That is the tragedy of Germany — the sore 
 spot that festers. The pinch has come, and the 
 rich protect themselves at the expense of the 
 poor. 
 
 At the Adlon and other great hotels one suf- 
 fers little. There is no sugar, but saccharine is 
 served, saccharine which ordinarily can only be 
 had by a doctor's order. It is true the allowance 
 of meat, bread, and butter per person is the same. 
 At the Adlon, butter is furnished on Tuesday 
 and Friday, the two meatless days. For break- 
 
 115 
 
SHOET RATIONS 
 
 fast one received a pat no larger than a big straw- 
 berry, and that is all. But the meat problem 
 hardly touches the rich. Chickens, ducks, and 
 birds are not called meat. They are to be had at 
 high prices. On meatless days they are always 
 served at the Adlon. The fat from these birds to 
 an extent makes up for the lack of butter. More- 
 over, the poor frequently have no money for meat 
 or butter, and their allowance is purchased by 
 the rich. 
 
 It is marvelous with what ingenuity the big 
 hotels conceal deficiencies. That is why visitors 
 and reporters fail to see the underlying truth. 
 
 Duck is served the night of my arrival. The 
 table d'hote dinner is $1.75. I eat every scrap. 
 It is not enough for a hungry man, but for me it 
 is satisfying. As I rise from the table I say to 
 the waiter : " That is as good a dinner as I ever 
 ate.' 7 He smiles broadly, greatly pleased. 
 
 But I go to bed tormented by the lean and 
 shrunken people I have seen. It is foolish to 
 starve out Germany. This procedure does not 
 hurt the governing classes and the rich. They 
 will not suffer until the rest of Germany is dead. 
 Starvation kills off the poor, but leaves the mili- 
 tarists intact. This is not the way to crush 
 
 116 
 
UNDER THE HAND OF DEATH 
 
 militarism. It cannot be done by pressure from 
 the outside. Regeneration always comes from 
 within. Revolution or evolution — not smash- 
 ing — is what is needed. 
 
 117 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 LIFE IN BERLIN 
 
 August 12th to 26th. 
 SNUGGLE down into my luxurious bed. I 
 look about my room with pleasure. Every 
 tiny comfort is provided for. The silk draper- 
 ies, the linen sheets, the silk eiderdown bed- 
 spread, all tell of Germany's former luxury. 
 War and poverty exist outside, but here all is 
 comfort. I am loath to rise. Even breakfast is 
 reassuring. There is coffee, saccharine, and a 
 tiny drop of milk, two rolls, no butter, but some 
 delicious jam. It is last year's jam. This 
 year's has little sugar. 
 
 As I start to leave the hotel I pause in the en- 
 trance to gaze up and down the famous street 
 Unter den Linden. Thin streams of people are 
 passing and repassing. It is Monday, but the 
 atmosphere is that of Sunday. German week- 
 days now are all like Sunday. A little group of 
 people is pressed against a big glass window. 
 
 118 
 
LIFE IN BERLIN 
 
 Here the latest war bulletins are posted. Peo- 
 ple always assemble at two spots — war bulle- 
 tins and food shops. It is uncanny to see tragic 
 eyes gazing into pastry shops and fruit stores. 
 Meat is not displayed. I wondered why the but- 
 ter and cheese stores were ignored. I tried gaz- 
 ing in one. They put up such a good appearance 
 with their shining tinfoil packages. Then I dis- 
 covered the reason. The packages are fake. 
 Each holds a block of wood. There is no butter 
 or cheese in window or shop. Twice a week a 
 tiny supply arrives to be distributed to the 
 bearers of cards, that is all. 
 
 As I start to leave the hotel a clerk detains me : 
 " You must go at once to the police," he says. 
 This is my first police visit. I did not go in 
 Hamburg. Nothing was said about it. This 
 looks more than ever as though my companion of 
 the train was known in Germany, and that while 
 with her in Hamburg I was exempt. The police 
 are friendly. I have no difficulty, but I am told 
 to report again the day before leaving Berlin. 
 My police visits, in themselves, make a story. At 
 each new city you must call on these officials. 
 These gentlemen vary in their interest. Some- 
 times they want your life history, at others ten 
 
 119 
 
SHORT EATIONS 
 
 minutes suffices. The visit of departure is al- 
 ways more trying than that of arrival. Then 
 you must state where you are going, to what 
 hotel, and what your plans are. There is no 
 chance for elopements. A single lady is per- 
 fectly chaperoned. 
 
 From the police I proceed to the American 
 Embassy. American Embassies in war-time are 
 discouraging places. Their attitude usually is, 
 " Why are you here? You '11 only make us 
 trouble. You 'd better go straight home." 
 However, I have a young friend in the Embassy. 
 I impress upon him the fact that I am not going 
 home. " I shall," I declare, " visit the police 
 regularly, break no rules, cause no trouble, but 
 I 'in in search of the truth, and as a free Ameri- 
 can citizen I mean to talk to every one I can from 
 the Kaiser to Liebknecht." He thinks the 
 Kaiser safer than Liebknecht. " You '11 be 
 watched every moment," he says, "and the au- 
 thorities won't let you see anything they don't 
 want you to." 
 
 As I leave the Embassy I hesitate. The idea 
 of spies is disconcerting. The first person I 
 want to visit is a woman who is a member of 
 the Social Democratic party. My errand is 
 
 120 
 
LIFE IN BERLIN 
 
 harmless ; she speaks English, and I want her to 
 act as interpreter, and teach me German. I pur- 
 sue a zig-zag course, and having doubled on my 
 tracks, take a taxi to her home. 
 
 On this occasion I elude pursuit, but to do so 
 continuously is impossible. The funny thing 
 about German spies is that they dress for the 
 part. They are as unmistakable as Sherlock 
 Holmes. They nearly always wear gray clothes, 
 a soft gray hat, are pale-faced, shifty-eyed, 
 smooth-shaven, or have only a slight moustache, 
 and carry canes. 
 
 One night my friend and I led them a chase 
 about the city until midnight. We jumped 
 from one car to another. It proved an exciting 
 game. Once we went up to a gray-clad man, and 
 asked him if he was n't tired. But spies grow 
 angry when spoken to. German officials have no 
 sense of humor. If they had, I wonder if there 
 would have been a war. 
 
 I feel very sorry for one spy. He stands on 
 the street corner in the rain one day from three 
 in the afternoon until nine in the evening. I go 
 out periodically to see if he is there. I simply 
 cannot take him seriously. My friend and I get 
 into gales of laughter. I want to go out and in- 
 
 121 
 
SHOKT RATIONS 
 
 vite him in to tea. He looks so miserable. But 
 he would never understand. My friend lives in 
 an apartment house. He probably still does n't 
 know who it is I visit. I insist on relieving his 
 mind. I get my friend to walk with me to the 
 Adlon, so she can be exhibited. She thinks it is 
 dangerous, but we are doing no harm, and surely 
 one cannot be arrested for talking to a Social 
 Democrat! My friend's husband goes ahead to 
 see what fate befalls us. He sits on a bench un- 
 der a big tree directly opposite the hotel en- 
 trance. 
 
 Sure enough there is a gray-clad spy talking 
 to the hotel porter. As my friend and I ap- 
 proach, the porter jerks the spy's arm. " Here 
 she comes," he says. It is terribly exciting. I 
 feel as important as a heroine in a dime novel. 
 I am almost tempted to enter into some plot. 
 It must be so disappointing to these gentlemen 
 to find me vibrating between the German Red 
 Cross, the poor, and plans for feeding German 
 babies. 
 
 But before I leave Germany the spies get on 
 my nerves. What was at first amusing becomes 
 a nuisance. I feel exactly as though I am in 
 prison. I acquire the habit of looking out of 
 
 122 
 
LIFE IN BEKLIN 
 
 the corner of my eye and over my shoulder. 
 These spies are as annoying to their countrymen 
 as to me. The people detest them. They grow 
 restless under such suppression. Free conversa- 
 tion is impossible, except behind closed doors. 
 Between German spies and the spies of other 
 countries supposed to be at large, public con- 
 versation is at a standstill. Everywhere are 
 signs — " Soldaten" — "Vorsicht bei gesprochen 
 Spionengefahr" 
 
 For several days I wander about Berlin letting 
 impressions sink in. There is, as I have said, 
 activity, but it is the activity of a bygone day or 
 a country town. Nowhere are there shining new 
 taxis, prancing horses, and laughing people. 
 
 The taxis are the refuse from the front. They 
 toss and bump you about. The carriages have 
 been resurrected from the past. The horses are 
 chiefly valuable as a study in bone anatomy. 
 Poor things ! I often gazed in their dinner pails. 
 They never had anything but chopped straw. 
 
 As for the people, there is a somber grayness 
 about them. They, too, are thin. I didn't see 
 a big girth anywhere. Germany is stomachless. 
 It is n't that people have nothing to eat, but they 
 have too little. The food they have isn't the 
 
 123 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 right kind. During the summer there seemed to 
 be plenty of vegetables, fruit, and a fair supply 
 of black bread, but this without grease, sugar, or 
 meal does not satisfy digestion. It 's like trying 
 to run a wagon without oil. It begins to creak. 
 The German race begins to creak. As a whole, 
 it is pale, thin, and sunken-eyed. Sooner or later 
 a crisis is inevitable. Whether when it comes it 
 will be a uniting of the people with the von Tir- 
 pitz group in ugly retaliation, or an internal 
 awakening and evolution, depends on the atti- 
 tude of the neutrals and the Allies. The sol- 
 diers as well as the civil population suffer. The 
 front line trenches may be well fed, but the men 
 home on leave or in barracks are noticeably thin. 
 They are pale, weary, and without life. They 
 also have no stomachs. There is a popular say- 
 ing among them ; it goes as follows : — 
 
 Dorrgemiise, 
 Trocken Brot, 
 Marrnelade, 
 Heldentod. 
 
 which translated reads: Dried vegetables, dry 
 bread, marmalade, and a hero's death. Soldiers 
 are everywhere in Berlin. They are always com- 
 ing and going. The cripples are not allowed 
 
 124 
 
LIFE IN BERLIN 
 
 upon the streets, but nervous wrecks are plenti- 
 ful. 
 
 In spite of the concealment of the wounded, 
 the population begins to understand its loss. 
 One night I went to the station to see a big de- 
 tachment leave for Wilma. They had all been 
 in war before. Their uniforms were dirty and 
 patched. They sat on benches clinging to a loved 
 one's hand, or stood in listless groups. No one 
 talked. They were like tired children. They 
 needed food and bed. The scenes of farewell 
 were harrowing. 
 
 Here was a young boy saying good-by to a 
 mother and three aunts. He was all they had — 
 their whole life. Here a father saying farewell 
 to a wife and three sons, all under seventeen. 
 Or a mother in deep mourning taking leave of 
 her last son, or a young wife with a baby in her 
 arms giving a last embrace. 
 
 As the train moved out of the station there 
 were no shouts, no cheers, no words of encour- 
 agement. Instead there was a deadly silence. 
 The men leaned out of windows, stretching de- 
 spairing hands towards loved ones. As the train 
 pulled away the little groups broke into strang- 
 ling sobs. They were shaken as by a mighty 
 
 127 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 tempest. Paroxysms of grief rent and tore them. 
 They knew the end had come. A man may go 
 once into battle and return, but not twice and 
 thrice. Life held no hope. As I came away I 
 stopped before the big building which conducts 
 military affairs. It is known as the " House of 
 Sorrow." On its rear wall is posted the list of 
 dead and wounded. 
 
 The night was dark and still ; by the rays of an 
 electric arc a few stragglers were running anx- 
 ious fingers down the long lists. I stopped to 
 count the number. The report covered five days' 
 casualties (from August 17th to August 21st). 
 Through mistakes names are occasionally re- 
 peated. I dropped out several thousand to al- 
 low for repetitions. Even then the total of dead, 
 wounded, or missing was 44,000 — a city wiped 
 out in five days. The Socialists estimate that 
 two and a half to three million men in Prussia 
 have been killed, wounded, or are missing. No 
 wonder the soldiers are desperate. 
 
 When the men march to the station on the way 
 to the front, bands play gay national airs to hide 
 the depression. But music cannot cheer — the 
 populace stands silent on the sidewalk. Occa- 
 sionally a tear trickles down a cheek. The sol- 
 
 128 
 
LIFE IN BERLIN 
 
 diers keep eyes front, faces set and rigid. There 
 are no comforting smiles, no cheers, no waving 
 hands. 
 
 One evening at midnight as I cross the Thier- 
 garten I pass a small procession of new recruits. 
 Midnight, mj friend tells me, is the favorite hour 
 for seizing fresh food for cannon. There is some- 
 thing sinister in choosing dark hours, when the 
 city sleeps, for this deed. On this occasion the 
 recruits number a hundred or two. Their ages 
 vary. They might be fathers and sons. 
 
 Such is the fate of the men, nor is life any 
 better for the women. They are to be seen every- 
 where. In the streets digging and cleaning 
 sewers. On the road with pick-ax and shovel, 
 helping Russian prisoners relay railroad tracks. 
 In the subways, clad in bloomers, acting as train 
 starters. On the trams, wearing husband's mo- 
 tor cap and coat. At night they come home to 
 hungry children and empty larders. Their tiny 
 savings go for bread and potatoes. The day 
 laborers cannot frequent city feeding kitchens. 
 They cannot afford it. Berlin prepared to feed 
 35,000. Last winter 13,000 ate at the kitchens. 
 In summer the number decreased to 8000. The 
 meal served is a pint bowl of food, which is a 
 
 129 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 cross between soup and stew. It contains pota- 
 toes, barley, rye, vegetables, or anything to be 
 had, and on the meat days some odds-and-ends 
 of meat. A bowl-ful is 10 cents, a half-bowl 6 
 cents. A mother earning 40 to 60 cents a day 
 cannot pay 10 cents a head for food. It is the 
 bourgeois class that patronize the kitchens. 
 
 I visited these feeding stations. A large cen- 
 tral market turned into a kitchen prepares the 
 food. Here are big vats — in which the food is 
 steamed or boiled in bulk. From here the cooked 
 product is sent to feeding stations in different 
 localities. Women of means preside over these 
 places, and conduct them well. The stewed 
 mass is usually very eatable. 
 
 Such places are a Godsend to the middle class, 
 the small store-keepers, whose business has 
 failed, clerks, and stenographers, but for the un- 
 skilled laborer the price is prohibitive. These 
 places do not accommodate many at a time, for 
 people come and go. At noon I watched a little 
 stream move in and out. They were all comfort- 
 ably dressed. They paused to have their cards 
 punched — potatoes, bread, meat, flour, accord- 
 ing to what that day's bowl contained. 
 
 As I looked my eye was caught by two small 
 130 
 
LIFE IN BERLIN 
 
 children. They had crept in the big door and 
 sat on a bench side by side, hand in hand. The 
 elder, a boy of eleven, was clad in ragged, dirty 
 coat and trousers. His face was streaked with 
 dirt, save for spots here and there cleansed by 
 falling tears. A small sister of five snuggled 
 up to him. She too possessed only a boy's 
 ragged, dirty coat and trousers. Her face was 
 smudged with black, but it was rounder, with 
 more color than the boy's. Her baby eyes were 
 a shining blue. She seemed to rest serene in her 
 brother's care. It was evident the lad was fight- 
 ing manfully for his little sister. The boy's 
 face was pinched and blue and lined with an- 
 guish. 
 
 I called the attention of the women workers to 
 the children. " They are probably waiting for 
 scraps of food. We '11 give them something by 
 and by," I was told. " But," I protested, " those 
 children are suffering." 
 
 With the aid of a friendly policeman I got their 
 story. These were their answers. " Hungry — 
 terribly hungry. Mother dead ; father in the war ; 
 had no home, slept anywhere; ate anything." 
 I dropped some money in the boy's hand. 
 His little claw-like fingers snatched eagerly 
 
 131 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 at mine. I can feel their touch yet. Then he 
 slid from the bench, and started for the door. 
 But by this time the women workers had joined 
 me. " Go, get in line, and you can have some 
 food," they ordered. The boy hid his money be- 
 neath his coat, and ran at full speed toward the 
 steaming food. Behind him came the tiny sister, 
 her naked baby feet flying after his, her tiny baby 
 hand clutching the end of his ragged jacket. I 
 turned away ; I could n't bear to see them eat. 
 God pity us ; why must such suffering be? Prob- 
 ably there are as many children in New York 
 and London without any food as in Berlin. The 
 tragedy of Germany is not quick starvation for a 
 few; it is the under-feeding of a whole race. 
 Mothers and babies are gradually going down 
 hill. 
 
 Everywhere the signs of decline are manifest. 
 In the windows of houses, on the front of empty 
 stores, are great signs : " Zu Vermieten " ( To 
 Let). For years merchants have been fighting 
 for vacancies on the big thoroughfares of popu- 
 lar Berlin. Now they are to be had everywhere. 
 In the stations and amusement-halls stand 
 empty chocolate slots. So long have they been 
 empty that children are no longer beguiled into 
 
 132 
 
LIFE IN BERLIN 
 
 dropping in a penny in the hope of extracting 
 something. 
 
 One Sunday I went to the Zoological Garden, 
 the popular resort of the masses. A band or 
 two still played, but the grounds were not half- 
 filled. Everywhere were vacant tables, where 
 formerly it was a privilege to secure one. Little 
 family groups in black sat silently before a 
 lonely glass of beer. Sandwiches were a rarity. 
 The ices seemed to be made of colored frozen 
 perfumes, and were distressing internally. 
 
 In the iron cages there were a few animals. 
 Whether they have decreased in number I can- 
 not tell. But they, like the people, suffer from 
 a scanty diet. The monkeys have grown con- 
 tentious. Their tempers suffer. They raised a 
 most terrific racket, and continually bit and 
 clawed and fought each other. Ironic laughter 
 seized me. They were so human. I fell to won- 
 dering whether mankind was copying them or 
 they mankind. 
 
 The two or three lions in the outdoor cages 
 were lean and restless. They crouched and 
 growled or paced feverishly up and down. There 
 was none of the lazy indifference seen in fat cir- 
 cus-fed animals. 
 
 133 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 In a flash they revealed the change in Ger- 
 many. Before the war, under a benevolent pa- 
 ternalism, the people grew round of girth. Re- 
 plete with good food and flowing beer, feet and 
 brains lagged. It is hard to be discontented 
 and progressive when the stomach is full and 
 the land flows with milk and honey. But with 
 suffering a new race is emerging — a lean race 
 with active minds that begins to question Ger- 
 man autocracy and militarism. 
 
 As I left the Zoological Garden a small boy 
 passed me. In loud tones, boastfully and with 
 unction, he declared to two enwrapped, envious 
 listeners: "And I had a piece of fat for din- 
 ner," raising his fingers to measure, " it was so 
 big, and juicy." 
 
 To an observant person three things are every- 
 where in evidence, telling an unmistakable story. 
 The flat stomachs, the endless signs, " To Let," 
 and the empty chocolate slots. The German 
 race is surely sliding down hill. What shall 
 the world do? Shall it stand idly by, or shall 
 it stretch out a hand of sympathy and under- 
 standing to these troubled people and help them 
 free themselves from the domination of a mili- 
 tary group they begin to despise? The people 
 
 134 
 
LIFE IN BERLIN 
 
 do not wish to be ugly. They do not believe in 
 a Von Tirpitz submarine policy, but if England 
 and France insist on smashing and crushing the 
 German nation, where is their hope? What is 
 left but ugly retaliation. We are not yet an- 
 gels ! 
 
 135 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE POOD RIOTS AND THE POTATO LINE 
 
 IS Germany efficient? The world shouts, 
 " Yes." But there is more than one kind of 
 efficiency. 
 
 This is a true story told me by a friend of 
 Frau Bunker. Frau Dunker is a working 
 woman. She works early and late. She has no 
 time for frivolity. Shopping is a luxury. But 
 Frau Bunker's stockings had given out. They 
 had holes past mending. She must have new 
 ones. Cheap stockings require a Government 
 card. Silk stockings can be had without. But 
 silk stockings are not in Frau Bunker's class. 
 Grumblingly she gets her clothes card. She 
 leaves the factory at noon, and spends the lunch 
 hour in search. She finds the needed stockings, 
 but at twice their former price. She carefully 
 notes store and price. The adventure in stock- 
 ings has only begun. The next step is a visit 
 to the police. In the evening, weary with work, 
 
 136 
 
FOOD KIOTS AND THE POTATO LINE 
 
 she waits her turn in line. At last her name 
 is called. She receives a certificate of identifi- 
 cation stating she is Frau Dunker, and lives in 
 Martin Lutherstrasse. Armed with this she 
 next proceeds to a city magistrate. Again she 
 waits her turn, but eventually reaches the au- 
 gust presence. The interview is touching. The 
 magistrate doubts her necessity. She removes 
 her shoes and exhibits naked toes, protruding 
 through gaping holes. She tells the dispenser 
 of stockings that the articles are to be had at 
 such a store for such a price. Grudgingly the 
 magistrate gives an order for two pairs. Thus 
 equipped with identification certificate and mag- 
 istrate's order, Frau Dunker proceeds to her 
 purchase. Fortunately, the stockings desired 
 are still to be had. Had they been sold, and a 
 different kind purchased, the red tape must all 
 be unraveled again. 
 
 Frau Dunker goes home that night muttering : 
 " Curses on the military. Next time I won't 
 buy stockings. I '11 let my feet get sore. Then 
 the Government must care for me." 
 
 Is this efficient? Is there not such a thing as 
 over-organization? Suppose the police, the mag- 
 istrates, card indexers, and idle rich were set 
 
 137 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 to making stockings. Might there not be enough 
 to go around? Germany abounds in red tape. 
 
 I struggled desperately to reach Germany's 
 poor. I wanted to expend the money given me 
 by the Christian Work Fund properly. But of- 
 ficial Germany denies its poor and hides them. 
 The officials of the Relief Organizations were 
 very kindly and very appreciative, but they in- 
 sisted on showing me card catalogues and 
 pamphlets, and on discussing organization in- 
 stead of producing hungry babies. I flatly re- 
 fused to spend money on cataloguing. One day 
 I was told I should see suffering babies and 
 Germany's care. In different districts Berlin 
 has centers for babies. Here children are 
 brought to be tested. I reached one of these 
 offices at 2.30 one afternoon. Two is the open- 
 ing hour. There were no babies. I found a 
 doctor, two white-clad nurses, three beautifully- 
 equipped rooms, and row upon row of index 
 cards. Just as I was departing, one quite nor- 
 mal-looking baby arrived. The doctor reported 
 the baby's condition as satisfactory. 
 
 My lack of success discouraged me. I ap- 
 pealed to a woman social -worker. " Very well," 
 she said ; " I '11 show you what is happening." 
 
 138 
 
FOOD RIOTS AND THE POTATO LINE 
 
 She took me to the north of Berlin. There lit- 
 tle children swarmed, dirty, ragged, barefooted, 
 and pale. This is a new state of affairs for 
 Germany. Heretofore there has always been at 
 least potatoes and clothes. No one has gone 
 hungry. Paternalism flourishes only when the 
 family is fed. When father fails to furnish food 
 the children rebel. The spirit of rebellion is 
 abroad in Germany. We visited several tene- 
 ments. The following is a typical family. A 
 mother, nine children, and grandmother, two 
 rooms and a kitchen. Father in the war, in- 
 come 144 marks ($36) a month ; rent, $7 a month. 
 This mother could not afford to eat at a feeding 
 kitchen. One meal at ten cents a head meant 
 $1.20. The baby was six months old. It had 
 what is termed " the English sickness." It was 
 weak from lack of nourishment. It could not 
 raise its arms. Since September 1st only chil- 
 dren under six are allowed milk. The allowance 
 is a pint a day. Not enough to nourish a baby. 
 This family was living on tea and potatoes. 
 
 We visited many families. I could not but 
 admire my companion. She was very proud, but 
 tears ran down her cheeks. She belonged to 
 the official class. She adored Germany, and 
 
 139 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 held every German act right, yet her heart bled 
 for her people. Vainly she was trying to stem 
 the tide. She dashed her tears aside to say: 
 " Do you wonder German women are bitter? 
 But England shall not bring us to our knees, 
 rather we will give our last baby first." 
 
 At every home I insisted on laying in sui> 
 plies. But there was little to buy. Nothing 
 with substance — no meal. We had to be con- 
 tent with pudding powder (Heaven knows what 
 that is), tea "Ersatz," and some canned goods. 
 My companion had succeeded in getting some 
 packages of meal from the Government. When 
 she produced one of these the family went mad 
 with joy. Quaker oats are more precious to 
 mothers than diamonds. The thing that is 
 needed is food — not money. But I gave my 
 companion some money from the Christian 
 Work Fund. " Buy things that are going to the 
 rich and give them to the poor," I said. 
 
 I knew now what was most needed. It was 
 milk for babies. I dislike quoting figures, but 
 a trustworthy and well-informed Social Demo- 
 crat told me that in the big hospitals for babies 
 the increase in mortality was 50 per cent. In 
 the German papers were printed the following 
 
 140 
 
FOOD RIOTS AND THE POTATO LINE 
 
 statistics in regard to the Children's Hospital 
 in Berlin. In the first three days, 1912-1913 
 — ninety-three died. In the first three days 
 1914 to 1915, 160 died. I consulted Dr. Kim- 
 mule, the head of the German Red Cross in Ber- 
 lin, about securing milk. He thought the best 
 investment goats. More money had come from 
 the Christian Work Fund, and I turned over 
 4,000 marks (roughly, because of depreciation, 
 about $800), with which to buy goats for the 
 north of Berlin. The wealthy agrarian who 
 sold the goats asked 150 marks ($37.50) a goat. 
 Ordinarily, the price is 30 marks, or $5.50 per 
 goat. Was this German agrarian patriotic or 
 efficient? He made money out of the necessity 
 of German babies. Why did the Government 
 permit it? Was it efficient? Does Germany 
 handle its food supply efficiently? 
 
 The following items are to be had only with 
 Government cards: Bread, meat, potatoes, but- 
 ter, sugar, cheese, milk, eggs, meal, flour, soap, 
 and cheap clothes. Each person has to trade 
 at the store assigned. Working people have to 
 buy during noon and evening hours. This re- 
 sults in long lines in front of every shop at 
 twelve and at six. 
 
 141 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 One Saturday evening I went to a big market 
 in the poor quarter of Berlin. This market 
 covers an entire block. In it are sold meat, gro- 
 ceries, and dairy products. I arrived at six. 
 There was little meat visible. At one booth a 
 butcher presided over a wholly empty counter. 
 A little old woman stood before him weeping 
 bitterly. Between sobs she let out a torrent of 
 words. This is what she said : " I must have 
 some fat" — sob — "I haven't had meat or fat 
 for three weeks." Sob, sob, sob. " My stomach 
 has turned against marmalade " — sob — " I 
 can't live on it any longer." Sob, and indig- 
 nantly : " It 's no use telling me to come earlier 
 before the meat 's gone. I can't come earlier. 
 I have to work until six." 
 
 I pulled my companion's sleeve : " Look ! " 
 I said, " There 's meat on that other counter ; 
 could n't we buy some? " But no, of course not ; 
 the little old woman could only get meat with 
 her meat card from her particular butcher. This 
 time it was I who said : " Curses on the mili- 
 tary." Conspicuously over many counters 
 flapped the sign, " Ersatz." " Ersatz " means 
 substitute. Sausage Ersatz was a pale edition 
 of the real article. One's speculations run riot. 
 
 142 
 
FOOD EIOTS AND THE POTATO LINE 
 
 But there were few meat purchasers. The 
 people were out for potatoes. The potato coun- 
 ter was as bad as a bargain day in a department 
 store. At six o'clock there was a line stretching 
 through the entire market and far out into the 
 street. At least two thousand people were in 
 line. I stood and watched for three hours, and 
 the line never decreased. As fast as some left, 
 others arrived. There were old men and women, 
 mothers with babies and tiny children clinging 
 to their skirts, and young children carrying huge 
 baskets. The crowd swayed and muttered. It 
 stood on one foot and then on the other. 
 Women who had worked all day looked ready to 
 drop with fatigue. At the counter three or four 
 women employees were dealing out potatoes and 
 punching cards as rapidly as possible. Occa- 
 sionally little commotions broke the monotony. 
 Once a baby cried. We hurried toward the 
 sound. In a baby carriage a tiny creature 
 sobbed drearily. Standing beside the carriage 
 and clinging tight to the baby was a five-year- 
 old, also weeping. Brother, twelve years old, 
 had been standing in line three hours for his 
 potatoes. Meanwhile, the babies had grown 
 hungry. They had had nothing to eat since 
 
 143 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 noon. Some kindly women gave them bread, 
 which was devoured eagerly. Presently mother 
 arrived, just released from the factory. She was 
 tired and worn. She shook and scolded brother 
 for being so slow. Then the little procession 
 moved off, the babies, the little boy, all dirty, 
 ragged, and barefooted, and the worn mother, 
 with a bag of potatoes between them. All they 
 had. Father was in the war. 
 
 Once I left the market and went with my friend 
 to sit on a street bench near by. Close to us was 
 a pale, sickly man and his wife and child. 
 
 "Have you your potatoes?" we inquired. 
 " No," was the reply, " but grandmother is stand- 
 ing in line. It 's going to be all right to-night. 
 Last Saturday we waited three hours. Then we 
 had n't any. They 'd given out." " What did 
 you do?" we gasped. Quietly, without bitter- 
 ness, came the answer: "We went hungry, of 
 course." 
 
 We went back to the market. There was still 
 the same line, but the crowd was getting rest- 
 less. A rumor was afloat that the potatoes were 
 giving out. Women began to talk in angry 
 tones. Then an amusing incident occurred. A 
 patient horse hitched to a delivery wagon had 
 
 144 
 
FOOD RIOTS AND THE POTATO LINE 
 
 been standing among the people. Little chil- 
 dren came to pat and stroke his nose. He 
 seemed the mildest of creatures. Then came the 
 report about the potatoes. The crowd began to 
 mutter. An officious policeman began to shove 
 the people back. His tones were angry, his 
 manner far from gentle. As he passed the horse, 
 the creature seemed to bristle. Its meekness 
 vanished, and throwing up its head, it gave the 
 officer a vicious nip. A little cheer broke from 
 the crowd. The horse was so human. It had 
 so expressed the multitude. The officer was 
 furious. He spat upon the animal, and hit him 
 in the face. In a moment children were crowd- 
 ing around and again patting the horse's nose. 
 All the creature's meekness returned. But the 
 crowd w T as angry. Some women shook their 
 fists. Then a whisper passed along the line. 
 More potatoes had arrived. A huge w T agon-full 
 stood outside. Only this word prevented a riot. 
 The crowd settled down; peace came again. 
 Nothing would happen that night. It was nine 
 o'clock. My friend and I were weary, and we 
 left. 
 
 Is such food distribution efficient? The agra- 
 rians are asking about one and one-half cents a 
 
 145 
 
SHOKT RATIONS 
 
 pound for potatoes. Three times the pre-war 
 price. They wanted to raise the cost to three 
 cents, but the Government set the limit at a cent 
 and a half. Out of revenge the agrarians sent 
 the worst potatoes to Berlin. 
 
 Germany cannot afford to have one worker 
 starve. Why not seize agrarian land, and set 
 officials and card indexers to raising potatoes? 
 It would be more profitable to pay them for such 
 work than^ard for cataloguing. Why bother 
 with cards? Why not establish eating kitchens, 
 and let everybody who is hungry eat at meal 
 times? Card cataloguing might be used to see 
 that each one worked. But both rich and poor 
 could be given food at Government kitchens, and 
 share and share alike. 
 
 The wealthy people do not stand in line. 
 Their servants do this for them. Besides, chick- 
 ens and birds at high prices are to be had without 
 cards. The egg allowance is one a week. But 
 for the wealthy this also is a farce. I grew egg 
 hungry, and demanded two one week, but the 
 waiter was adamant. " Well," I grinned, " I 
 know what I '11 do ; I '11 buy some live chickens 
 and keep them in my room, then I can have eggs 
 every morning for breakfast. Actually the 
 
 146 
 
FOOD RIOTS AND THE POTATO LINE 
 
 waiter laughed. Seriously, that chicken idea is 
 not bad. If Mme. Hempel had taken chickens 
 and a goat to Germany with her this summer, in- 
 stead of her lap dog, she would have been very 
 popular. This idea is not patented, and I recom- 
 mend it to all travelers in Germany. 
 
 In the big cities conditions are worse than in 
 the country. Farmers are expected to pool and 
 sell their supplies of milk, butter, and eggs, but, 
 naturally, they hold back enough for their chil- 
 dren. There is no way of knowing how much 
 milk each cow gives each day unless the German 
 army was retired from the field to do the milking, 
 and report to the Government. Even German 
 organization cannot brook this. One farmer I 
 discovered greasing the wheels of his wagon with 
 home-made butter. The price of butter is kept 
 at a fixed rate. Oil was so expensive he could n't 
 afford it. Soap was not on the card list until 
 late August. Fat had been under control for 
 months, but the Government forgot soap was 
 grease. Now one cake a month is the allowance. 
 The ante-war soap is very expensive. I paid 50 
 cents for a 15 cent cake. The soap made since 
 the war is atrocious. 
 
 I asked the Social Democrats about the food 
 147 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 riots. They occurred, I was told, chiefly in the 
 spring, when the potatoes gave out. In Ham- 
 burg the women ran straight on the soldiers' bay- 
 onets in the struggle for food, and several were 
 killed. The following day, Sunday, the Govern- 
 ment had to throw open the Hamburg provision 
 stores, and let the people buy to restore peace. 
 Berlin has had several riots, In some cities 
 women have been shot. " It is quite easy to start 
 rebellion," said, a Social Democrat to me. 
 " Several times we went to the market and urged 
 the crowd to riot. But we stopped, for women 
 were put in prison and the children left desti- 
 tute." 
 
 But when there are no potatoes there will be 
 riots. As long as there is food for the children, 
 however inadequate, the women keep quiet. 
 Their hearts are sore, but they dare not rebel. 
 They fear the fate that may befall their husbands 
 at the front, if they make trouble. Or, if the 
 husband is wounded, they fear he will not be well 
 cared for. Or they fear their children will be 
 taken from them. But these women when spoken 
 to look wise and say: "Wait until our men 
 come back from the front, then you '11 see." 
 
 The German Government is headed for dis- 
 148 
 
FOOD EIOTS AND THE POTATO LINE 
 
 aster, because it has failed to distinguish between 
 two kinds of efficiency — personal efficiency and 
 industrial efficiency. Human beings cannot be 
 treated like machines. It does not make them 
 efficient. The world would do well to copy Ger- 
 many's industrial efficiency. German hotels, 
 railroads, cars, and factories are the best of their 
 kind. But Germany's attempt to apply her sys- 
 tem to individuals is creating havoc. Human 
 beings are efficient when they are imaginative, 
 original, and uncrushable. That is why France 
 has out-shone all other belligerents. Her people 
 can turn a shirt-waist factory into a munition 
 factory overnight. Germany would spend three 
 months cataloguing and drawing plans. Eng- 
 land would be too bound by tradition and custom 
 to make such an adjustment. She would build 
 a new factory. 
 
 A year ago, I nursed the wounded French sol- 
 diers. They could discuss anything from femi- 
 nism to American politics. The German com- 
 mon soldier dares talk only what he has been 
 taught. The English " Tommy " is too stolid to 
 talk of anything. 
 
 Under paternalism we feed, clothe, and spank 
 our babies, and they may become good-natured, 
 
 149 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 obedient, and cultured people. But if the roof 
 blows off the house and the children are thrust 
 out to meet bears and snakes undirected, they are 
 helpless. 
 
 There is only one real preparedness, and that 
 is preparation for life. That is to be had, not 
 by drill and obedience, but by learning self-con- 
 trol through self-government. Only people who 
 do their own thinking and steering have value. 
 When children have become efficient, put them 
 together to learn united action. The force of 
 thinking people, acting as one, is gigantic. Sec- 
 retary Daniels talks of introducing self-govern- 
 ment into the American Navy. Self-government 
 has proved a successful method of dealing with 
 convicts. It is a method that will be even more 
 vaulable for the ordinary citizen. If the Ameri- 
 can Navy becomes really self-governing, its effi- 
 ciency will make the English Navy look tired. 
 
 The wonder of the world is not Germany or 
 England, but France. Germany in years of 
 preparation built up an army, and laid in food 
 and munitions for two years. But the two 1 years 
 is up, and the nation begins to crack and 
 crumble. France, on the other hand, in spite of 
 the strain, is still active and vividly alive. Her 
 
 150 
 
FOOD RIOTS AND THE POTATO LINE 
 
 people, undrilled in obedience, but strong in per- 
 sonal efficiency, have stood together as one man. 
 Slowly the German people are disintegrating. 
 In March or April, if not before, unless securing 
 the food supply in Rournania puts off the evil 
 day, the potatoes will give out, and there will be 
 riots. When this occurs, if Lloyd George is still 
 making speeches about crushing Germany, the 
 German militarists by these speeches may drive 
 the people together in a campaign of desperation 
 and horror. Belgians will be seized and abused, 
 submarine terrors multiplied. But if a hand of 
 sympathy is extended to the German worker, he 
 will riot, not against mankind, but against his 
 own Government. Militarism will be over- 
 thrown. Now is the critical moment. Ought 
 Ave not to aid the awakened, struggling German 
 in his fight against Imperialism? 
 
 151 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 SIGNS OF UNREST AND REBELLION 
 
 I HAD been in Berlin two weeks. I wanted 
 to see other portions of Germany. I learned 
 there was to be an official tour for journalists. 
 I went to the German Press Bureau. " Could I 
 visit some prison camps? " I inquired. " If you 
 let me and I find they are good, I should be glad 
 to say so." The young man in charge of the 
 German Press is keenly intelligent. He repre- 
 sented the civil authorities — the Von Hollweg 
 group. There is a vast difference between the 
 civil and military authorities. The civil are 
 much more liberal. They are eager to send news 
 to America. I was told of a nine-day tour which 
 included a visit to two prison camps, and 
 invited to join the expedition. These trips are 
 magnificent feats in German propaganda. . An 
 intelligent director conducts a group of report- 
 ers through the country. All expenses are paid 
 and the journalists feted and feasted. It is hard 
 
 152 
 
SIGNS OF UNREST AND REBELLION 
 
 to view Germany impartially when fed on cham- 
 pagne. I delayed my departure for a day. It 
 was the moment of the Liebnecht trial and I 
 wished to be present in case of an uprising". 
 Also by this postponement, I avoided the special 
 car assigned to journalists and could pay my own 
 railroad fare to Karlsruhe. 
 
 Berlin had been very interesting. I was 
 loath to leave. As I came back to the Adlon 
 for afternoon tea there was a great crowd around 
 the entrance. A person in much gold braid and 
 military trappings stood in the hallway. A 
 hushed awe pervaded the place. Even the Amer- 
 ican reporters were humbly cringing in corners. 
 The royal princess was upstairs. She and others 
 of the nobility were on their way to a funeral. 
 A Russian officer, who had intermarried with the 
 German nobility, had been killed at the front, 
 and the relatives were attending his funeral. 
 Having had tea and readjusted their veils, the 
 royal party descended. The ladies were in deep- 
 est mourning, their veils so thick that not a speck 
 of face was visible. A sacred circle surrounded 
 them, into which no one stepped. The crowd 
 was pushed back. Carlyle and his clothes theory 
 flashed upon me. These people were just a 
 
 153 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 bundle of clothes. How much heart and brain 
 lay beneath. If only one could dress royalty in 
 bathing suits, it would be easier to form esti- 
 mates. Outside were shining carriages, fat and 
 prancing horses (the only fat horses in Berlin) 
 and spick and span liveried servants. A silent 
 crowd watched the entrance into the coaches. 
 But it pressed up close to this bit of luxury. I 
 w r ondered if the princess through her black veil 
 could see the pale, thin faces peering in the 
 carriage windows. 
 
 Next day was the Liebknecht trial. No paper 
 announced it, but word had been passed to me 
 by the Social Democrats. That day I was up 
 early. I took a taxi and drove 'round and 'round 
 the big grim barracks where Liebknecht was said 
 to be imprisoned. But all was still. No crowd 
 gathered. There was no royal ceremonial for 
 this brave spirit. Bitterly disappointed by the 
 lack of demonstration, I sought out some Social 
 Democrats. They were Liebknecht's intimate 
 friends. I took two taxis and three electric 
 trams to elude spies, jumping from one to an- 
 other. These radicals were as disappointed as I 
 that nothing had occurred. The factory workers 
 were to have made a protest. A large body was 
 
 154 
 
SIGNS OF UNREST AND REBELLION 
 
 to have gone on strike. A little leaflet stating 
 time and place for the demonstration was to 
 have been distributed. But the leaflet failed to 
 arrive. A big package reached Berlin, but when 
 opened it contained a soldier's uniform. The 
 Government had gotten wind of the plot and 
 seized the leaflets, substituting the uniform. No 
 one dared make inquiries. It would have meant 
 imprisonment. 
 
 Few people outside Germany know of the ex- 
 tensive revolt carried on by the radicals. The 
 day of Liebknecht's imprisonment 5500 workers 
 in one munition factory alone, just outside Ber- 
 lin, went on strike for the entire day. There 
 were similar protests throughout the country. 
 A detailed statement was given me but I dared 
 not carry such literature about. 
 
 The Liebknecht following grows. The workers 
 more and more flock to his standard to the infi- 
 nite dissatisfaction of the major wing of the 
 Social Democratic party. The demonstration 
 that caused Liebknecht's arrest will go down in 
 history. Several thousand were gathered in 
 Leipsicerstrasse and Potsdamerplatz. They had 
 come to talk peace. But when Liebknecht ap- 
 peared a mighty shout went up from a thousand 
 
 155 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 throats. " Hurrah for Liebknecht." Liebknecht 
 raised his hand for silence. Then steadily, 
 though knowing the cost, he said : " Do not 
 shout for me, shout rather we will have no more 
 war. We will have peace — now." Two young 
 women standing near pulled his sleeve. 
 " Don't," they begged ; " it means the end for 
 you." But the crowd had taken up the cry. 
 "We will have peace now." It went echoing 
 down the street in a mighty roar. Police were 
 already at Liebknecht's side. He smiled at the 
 young women and said : " Never mind ; I am the 
 best victim." But he was not the only victim. 
 The two young women who had never before met 
 Liebknecht and had taken no part in the demon- 
 stration are to-day also in prison. 
 
 The number in prison is astounding. In 
 Stuttgart 400 are serving terms. There are cor- 
 responding numbers in all big cities, but I can- 
 not be sure enough of my memory to quote accur- 
 ately. But these victims are not suffering in 
 vain. The military authorities clap every Lieb- 
 knecht radical behind the bars, but they cannot 
 stop the growing popular demand for peace. 
 They dare not. The major wing of the Social 
 Democratic party have taken advantage of this. 
 
 156 
 
SIGNS OF UNREST AND REBELLION 
 
 Throughout Germany under their auspices peace 
 meetings are being held. Everywhere people are 
 signing a petition for peace, on the basis of 
 status quo before the war. As long as the de- 
 mands are kept to this, peace meetings are toler- 
 ated. Not to permit them would be fatal. 
 There is a low, ominous murmur rising from the 
 people. 
 
 Most of the leaders in Liebknecht groups are in 
 prison, but the followers fight on. No longer 
 openly because they fear prison, but quietly and 
 insidiously. Gradually they are spreading re- 
 volt among the workers. The spirit of freedom 
 is abroad in Germany. It can never again be 
 wholly crushed. 
 
 Present among the group of Social Democrats 
 with whom I talked was the young daughter of 
 a prominent member. Her father is at the front. 
 He was snatched up and sent there despite all 
 protest. " Thank God, I 'ni near-sighted," he 
 said ; " naturally, I will never kill any one, and 
 my failure to land a bullet may be mistaken for 
 bad eyesight, in which case I will get back to 
 you." His sixteen-year-old daughter is as vivid 
 and radiant as a spring morning. She is in the 
 thick of the work her father left. Not long ago 
 
 157 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 she and 500 young people, boys and girls, be- 
 tween the ages of thirteen and twenty had a 
 demonstration. It was a holiday and they went 
 to the country for a day of comradeship. To- 
 ward evening, when the setting sun added its 
 glow to those young and fearless faces ; they came 
 marching back along the country road singing 
 " The Marseillaise." Over them they bore a 
 banner which read : " We are the advance guard 
 of the proletariat." They passed only one police- 
 man on their entry into the city. He was help- 
 less before this indomitable five hundred. He 
 could make no arrests, but he ordered them to dis- 
 band. Many of the young girls were clad in 
 gymnasium costume. The policeman was horri- 
 fied. In factories and subways everywhere 
 women wear bloomers, but this shocked police- 
 man, shuddered to see young girls with pigtails 
 so clad. The young crowd surrounded the of- 
 ficer gaily. Laughter was on their lips, humor 
 shone in their eyes, as they gave out wrong names 
 and wrong addresses. For a painful hour with 
 furrowed brow the worried official wrote busily. 
 To this day he is still hunting for those unlady- 
 like House-Fraus. 
 
 It was with reluctance I took leave of this lit- 
 158 
 
SIGNS OF UNREST AND REBELLION 
 
 tie radical group. It was late evening when I 
 reached the Adlon. A spirit of excitement and 
 tenseness pervaded the street. It had all day. 
 Policemen lurked on every corner. An unusual 
 number of spies were abroad. It was evident the 
 Government feared an uprising. But it had 
 planned a judicious stroke. For some time there 
 had been rumors that the Deutschland was back 
 in Bremen. But if it was, the Government sup- 
 pressed the fact. It kept that sugar plum for 
 a psychological moment. 
 
 This evening, when all thoughts were centered 
 on Liebnecht's fate, seemed the needed moment. 
 As I came down " Unter den Linden," a news 
 sheet was slipped in my hand. These leaflets 
 were being distributed broadcast gratis by the 
 " Berliner Morgen Post." In splashing black 
 letters across the page was, " U Boat Deutschland 
 eingetrofen An Bord Alles Wohl." A little 
 thrill coursed through me. It was magnetic and 
 contagious. Life and color came to the eye of 
 the spy, pedestrian and soldier alike. This was 
 a deed of which all Germany could be proud. 
 It bound all together. Temporarily steps grew 
 light and heads went up. It was interesting to 
 note the difference in effect produced by this 
 
 159 
 
BERLINER, 
 
 0R0ENP05F 
 
 3>Wr afe 400.000 ^ottttenfen 
 
 u-Bool JeaWanb" 
 cingeitoifen 
 
 Sremeit, 33* 2fepff 1916. 
 
 ©igeaet £>taftkit!fct 
 
 „Deu«sclilaiid« ift fyttit i>w Ut S&efetf* 
 
 jjiHsifcstKg ctftgeftHitmctt ttttfc Ij&t Sioti Utiles g$* 
 
 &jwfe5t* $lo S&atfe ©06§ tttgljlt 
 
 — ESSg55Mrta5555n5nm3gZSBC3 """" 
 
 A. facsimile of the handbill circulated in Berlin the evening the 
 Deutschland reached Bremen for the first time. 
 
 160 
 
SIGNS OF UNREST AND REBELLION 
 
 news and that of the sinking of the Lusitania. 
 
 I was in Berlin a year ago, just after the Lusi- 
 tania disaster. Then the crowd was excited, 
 angry, and sullen, doggedly determined to make 
 the world think that act justifiable. But no 
 pride shone from eyes. But the Deutschland 
 news was different. It was as though a great 
 gust of self-respect had flooded the nation. Next 
 morning hidden in the back sheets of the papers 
 was a tiny paragraph of six lines announcing 
 Liebknecht had been sentenced to four years' im- 
 prisonment at hard labor. But sprawled over 
 the entire paper in great black letters was the 
 Deutschland' s story. It was hard to riot against 
 a Government that had just done something of 
 which all were proud. 
 
 I left in the early morning. I was to make a 
 side trip and visit a home for Avar-orphans be- 
 fore joining the touring expedition. During my 
 entire stay in Berlin I had clamored to see homes 
 for war-orphans, without success. Either there 
 were none near Berlin or they were not for in- 
 spection. But I was told a model institution had 
 just been established outside Leipsic. This I 
 should see. After traveling from 7.30 until. 4, 
 and taking five trains, I was presented to twenty - 
 
 161 
 
SHOET RATIONS 
 
 five war-orphans. My temper, I confess, was 
 ruffled. I had seen hundreds of index cards de- 
 scribing destitute children, and now after a 
 strenuous day twenty-five " kiddies " were ex- 
 hibited. There can be no doubt it was a model 
 institution. It was a farm situated among hills 
 with well-equipped buildings. The institution 
 served two purposes: it trained hospital nurses 
 and these women during their training cared for 
 the children. The nurses were kindly. It was 
 evident they did their best for their charges. One 
 group of three little sisters had lost a father at 
 the front, and their mother, an actress, had gone 
 insane from grief. The only criticism I had to 
 make was that the children, regardless of par- 
 entage or inclination, were all being trained for 
 domestic service. Germany's relentless methods 
 of education are often appalling. I came across 
 one very distressing example. 
 
 At the beginning of the war German refugees, 
 mothers and children in other lands, were al- 
 lowed to return to the Fatherland, while the 
 men were interned in the enemy's country. 
 Frequently these mothers and babies had no 
 money. When this was the case the German 
 Government assigned the mothers work in dif- 
 
 162 
 
SIGNS OF UNREST AND REBELLION 
 
 ferent places and put their children in institu- 
 tions. Many a mother to-day is a broken wreck 
 in a hospital through loss of husband and chil- 
 dren. 
 
 I protested vigorously at this separation of 
 families, but the authorities assured me it had 
 to be. They said, " When we kept mothers and 
 children together, the mothers quarreled and it 
 made too much trouble." 
 
 The real truth of the matter, I fear, is that Ger- 
 many wanted to train the boys in one institution 
 to be soldiers and the girls in another to be do- 
 mestic servants. 
 
 I make this statement advisedly because it is 
 corroborated by another incident. I had seen 
 how the poor suffered for lack of food. I knew 
 if babies with adoring mothers and soldiers with 
 devoted wives went hungry, unloved war-or- 
 phans had no chance in the struggle. 
 
 The suffering of destitute children haunted me 
 until an idea came. No one in the world could 
 willingly want babies to starve. The thing to do 
 was to charter big ocean steamers, gather up 
 hungry children, and bring them to America. 
 In America we could feed and clothe them until 
 the war was over. No nation on earth would 
 
 163 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 dare molest such a shipload. Rick Americans, 
 I felt sure, could be counted on to finance the 
 scheme. 
 
 I went to the German Red Cross authorities 
 with my plan. I was given great praise for my 
 kindly intention, but the authorities were ada- 
 mant. Starving or not, German babies must be 
 educated in Germany. Only one kind of educa- 
 tion was adequate — German education. A 
 year of American training was not to be toler- 
 ated. 
 
 But such an attitude is sheer madness. I told 
 many German workers about my project. As 
 their children slip down hill from want of nour- 
 ishment, they will rise in wrath against a Gov- 
 ernment that refused such aid. 
 
 After two hours in the orphans' home I de- 
 parted. With the aid of two more trains I 
 reached Leipsic. Here I had a solitary dinner 
 in a big empty hotel. The dinner consisted of 
 chicken and a baked apple, and two almost white 
 rolls presented to me by the orphan asylum. 
 
 At midnight I took the train for Karlsruhe. I 
 had supposed I was boarding a sleeper, but 
 I had to change cars at one-thirty a. m. 
 
 This first train was bound for the Western 
 164 
 
SIGNS OF UNREST AND REBELLION 
 
 front. It was packed with soldiers. An officer 
 hearing my bad German was inclined to ques- 
 tion me and be over-friendly, but he soon de- 
 sisted. In my compartment were three soldiers 
 and a merchant. Soldiers rarely have the lux- 
 ury of sleepers. So they lowered the light and 
 crouched down in their corners, prepared to 
 sleep. 
 
 It was a weird sensation being flung so closely 
 against this evidence of war. By the tiny gleam 
 of light I could just see the outline of those mili- 
 tary figures and the knives sticking in each boot. 
 I fell to wondering how many stabs each knife 
 had given. 
 
 It was a relief an hour and a half later to 
 change trains. 
 
 The next morning, somewhat weary, I arrived 
 at my destination. I had been on nine trains 
 the preceding day to see twenty-five war orphans. 
 
 My party was out when I reached the hotel. 
 They were viewing the monuments of Karlsruhe. 
 It was with relief that I settled down into the at- 
 tractive room assigned. I foresaw it would be 
 restful to have every act prearranged by others. 
 
 I was dressing for lunch when I heard a great 
 commotion. German life is so dull these days 
 
 165 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 that anything causes excitement. There was a 
 great clattering of hoofs. That in itself was 
 unusual. I hurried to the window. Coming 
 down the square was row on row of open car- 
 riages. Barefooted children were running be- 
 side them. It must be at least the royal ruler of 
 the Duchy of Baden, I thought. But no, the 
 carriages were stopping in front of the hotel. 
 They were old-fashioned affairs, pulled by resur- 
 rected white horses. On the boxes sat aged little 
 men in uniforms many sizes too large. Their 
 silk hats came down over their ears. Then I 
 chortled with glee. Yes — it was — our party 
 of nineteen scrubby reporters. All this pomp 
 and ceremony was for us. 
 
 I felt like Alice in Wonderland transformed 
 into the Red Queen. The gaping populace stood 
 about, while the press alighted with all the dig- 
 nity they could muster. It was funny and 
 tragic. Germany had no one else to entertain 
 and we were treated like royalty. 
 
 Downstairs all was commotion. An elaborate 
 luncheon was being prepared. The Chamber of 
 Commerce was entertaining us. There were two 
 gentlemen to each reporter. An excuse for a 
 big meal is a godsend to-day. 
 
 166 
 
SIGNS OF UNREST AND REBELLION 
 
 These gentlemen had spared no expense. We 
 had seven or eight courses ; two or three kinds of 
 wine, including champagne. We ate for over 
 two hours. 
 
 It seemed cruel when I remembered Germany's 
 poor. That long swaying line of people in the 
 north of Berlin, struggling for potatoes. Yet it 
 was impossible to be angry with the Chamber of 
 Commerce. These gentlemen were so kindly, so 
 childlike in their obvious desire to be friends 
 with people from neutral lands. 
 
 Gracious speeches were made which I did not 
 understand. Perhaps it was well I did n't, for 
 I could clink glasses and drink to unknown 
 toasts. But all the time my heart ached for the 
 hungry people outside and the following ques- 
 tions never ceased to torment me. If the war 
 kept on wouldn't the radicals at the front and 
 the radicals in prison be killed and starved while 
 the military leaders and the jingoes which the 
 world professed to hate be kept intact? Did n't 
 the German military authorities want the war to 
 continue until all the strong men were killed, 
 so they could browbeat and discipline the young 
 boys and women left and build up a more power- 
 ful military autocracy than ever? But if peace 
 
 167 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 came, if the men came back, if suffering human- 
 ity came together, what would happen then? 
 Wouldn't that be death to militarism? Didn't 
 the militarists fear that moment? 
 
 My mind painted a picture. I knew what 
 would happen. I saw them, the young guard 
 of the proletariat, indomitable groups of five 
 hundred, marching from every corner of Ger- 
 many to the palace gates. 
 
 Yes, if peace comes before death, the Govern- 
 ment will have to pay. 
 
 168 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS — PRISON CAMPS AND 
 HOSPITALS 
 
 September, 1916. 
 
 THE official tour for journalists began its 
 sight seeing in Karlsruhe. It was under 
 direction of a Herr Dr. Shoemacher. Journal- 
 ists from neutral countries were to be shown the 
 greatness of Germany. All expenses were paid. 
 There were nineteen press representatives, in- 
 cluding myself: four women and fifteen men. 
 We came from Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Hol- 
 land, Switzerland, Spain, and America. The 
 one other American was a woman who lives in 
 Germany and writes for the "New York 
 Journal." Some of us were quite scrubby. 
 But several of the gentlemen had dress suits and 
 nearly all clean collars. I had a mussy evening 
 dress creased from a steady traveling in a hand 
 bag, but the other American lady blossomed out 
 in a black silk. 
 
 169 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 At first it was a little difficult to live up to 
 our surroundings. No money was spared for 
 our entertainment. We traveled in a special 
 car. Carriages and taxis resurrected from the 
 past met us at the station and conducted us to 
 expensive hotels. 
 
 But one quickly learns to be autocratic. In a 
 day even the gentleman without a clean collar 
 was critical if he had n't a private bath. The 
 moment of descent on a new city was thrilling. 
 As the train drew in to the station, lined up 
 on the platform would be a group of prominent 
 citizens, retired generals, covered with gold 
 braid and medals, wealthy merchants, the Bur- 
 germaster and Ober-Burgermaster, and other 
 city officials, w T hile the populace crowded in the 
 background. At such moments I descended from 
 the train as graciously as I could and extended 
 my hand. Often I had it kissed. It was diffi- 
 cult to remember we were only reporters. 
 
 After luncheon in Karlsruhe, given by the 
 Chamber of Commerce, at which champagne was 
 served, we were all very friendly. At three we 
 set off for the crippled soldiers' hospital at Et- 
 tlingen. With a private car we reached that sub- 
 urb in a few moments. As we walked through 
 
 170 
 
A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS 
 
 the village streets headed by distinguished-look- 
 ing generals, dirty half-naked, underfed children 
 sprawled on doorsteps, and through an open door 
 of a big building I saw a long line of patient peo- 
 ple buying potatoes. The Lazarette for armless 
 and legless men is impressive. It has a great 
 stretch of open ground and many well-equipped 
 buildings. 
 
 The first room we entered contained surgical 
 appliances. Suspended in each machine was a 
 man. One hung by his shoulders having his 
 neck stretched. Another lay face downward 
 having a leg pulled. A third endured the twist- 
 ing of a thumb and hand. Many of the patients 
 were white with pain, beads of perspiration stood 
 upon their foreheads. I shrank back. It was 
 like entering Mme. Tussand's chamber of hor- 
 rors, only these were living men, not wax figures. 
 But the military doctors were urging us forward. 
 With great pride they exhibited their inventions. 
 It was the machine that counted. But I looked 
 in the men's faces. Their expressions varied. 
 Sometimes it was patient endurance, but often 
 I saw anger and resentment. 
 
 Much of interest was shown. At one time we 
 were treated to a circus performance. A squad 
 
 171 
 
SHOKT RATIONS 
 
 of one-legged men was called to do dumb-bell ex- 
 ercises. Nearly all kept their balance, only one 
 or two lurched and tottered. Then a group of 
 armless or one-armed men were made to jump 
 wooden horses and do kindred stunts. " Don't 
 the men object to being exhibited? " I asked, as I 
 viewed the maimed group before me. " They 
 did at first," was the reply, " but we soon broke 
 them in and now they do it quite willingly." At 
 the end of the performance we were taken to the 
 room of false limbs. Here were steel arms with 
 great iron hooks. These are called week-day 
 arms. The Sunday arms are imitations of the 
 real thing. Few but officers have Sunday arms. 
 It was a weird scene, this exhibition of the latest 
 invention in arms and legs. It might have been 
 a demonstration in automobiles. Our little 
 group stood or sat about while the military doc- 
 tors produced crippled patients and strapped on 
 appliances. 
 
 The doctor's talk ran as follows: "This one 
 has had his leg off just below the knee but he 
 walks quite well," and he started the man down 
 the room. 
 
 " This one — " jerking another wreck forward 
 — " has one leg off at the knee and the other at 
 
 172 
 
A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS 
 
 the thigh but see how well he walks," and the 
 maimed wreck was pranced up and down be- 
 fore us. " Now this one," continued the doctor 
 with pride, "has had both legs and an arm re- 
 moved but you see he is quite satisfactory." I 
 began to feel in a horrible nightmare. It seemed 
 to me in another moment the doctor would be 
 saying, " Now this man had his head shot off 
 and we have substituted a wooden one. We 
 found the spine controlled muscular action and 
 he makes a perfectly satisfactory worker." 
 
 Never once in the whole afternoon was the 
 soul of those tortured bodies considered. The 
 long hospital wards were clean but ugly. There 
 were no flowers, no pictures, no games, no 
 graphaphones. The men looked utterly 
 wretched. When I commented on the need of 
 amusement the reply was, " It does n't do to 
 spoil the men; they don't want to work after- 
 ward." 
 
 From the hospital we made a hurried trip back 
 to Karlsruhe and, packing bags, dashed for the 
 train. As we passed through the station I no- 
 ticed a large sign with a huge index finger. It 
 said, " In case of aeroplanes go into the cellar." 
 It was at Karlsruhe that eighty women and chil- 
 
 173 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 dren were killed by bombs from French aero- 
 planes. 
 
 Our special car took us to Baden Baden. 
 
 I closed my eyes wearily but we were soon at 
 our destination. At the station were the open 
 victorias and white horses, and we made a trium- 
 phant journey to the hotel. But then came a 
 hitch. No baggage appeared. We sat in the 
 hotel parlor and the minutes slipped by. Across 
 the way on the Casino terrace elaborate dinner 
 preparations were going forward. The " Stadt " 
 (city) was entertaining us this evening. A long 
 table with sixty places and covered with flowers 
 was being made ready. At a short distance were 
 many small tables where wealthy citizens sat 
 and humbly gazed from afar. Generals in glit- 
 tering uniforms and the Ober-Burgomaster and 
 other city officials began to arrive. And still we 
 sat on in that hotel parlor. It didn't matter 
 much if our luggage was lost. Still it was too 
 bad not to have the clean collars and my evening 
 dress for this grand occasion. 
 
 An hour rolled by, then came word that our 
 possessions were on the way. This is what had 
 occurred. When we reached Baden Baden our 
 luggage was in our special car, but it had been 
 
 174 
 
A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS 
 
 thrown in without being labeled. Still it must 
 have been evident to the station master that the 
 bags belonged to us. But the German official 
 mind does n't work that way. Once break the 
 chain in efficiency and you have to begin all over. 
 The stuff went back to Karlsruhe to get labeled 
 and start out properly. It seems stupid of the 
 Allies to be killing millions of men when the way 
 to victory lies in slipping bolts that will topple 
 the whole German fabric. 
 
 We scampered into our clothes and arrived 
 late and flushed at the dinner party. There were 
 charming red roses at my plate. It was a sump- 
 tuous meal, an hour long, with everything from 
 oysters to ices, and a grand mixture of wines. 
 A German general sat on my right and a prom- 
 inent citizen on the left. Though I understood 
 some German I still could not speak it. But 
 the German general was very attractive, so I 
 just smiled and murmured, <e Ja wohl." His 
 thinness bothered me, and when we were half 
 through dinner and the champagne had warmed 
 his heart he said confidingly, " My clothes no 
 longer fit ; I have lost twenty-four pounds around 
 the waist." His childlike confession was pa- 
 thetic, but he had a stoical pride that was thrill- 
 
 175 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 ing, for, lie added, " It 's been much better for 
 my health getting thin — all the German peo- 
 ple are better off for this shortage of meat and 
 fat." But he ate hungrily as did every one else. 
 
 These dinner parties were a splendid excuse 
 for a little joy. All through the meal a band 
 played gayly. Thoughts of war vanished. The 
 Casino garden with its lights, its music, and 
 thronging people seemed a fairyland. It was n't 
 until we left and passed through the iron gates 
 that reality returned. You cannot enter the 
 Casino garden without a. membership ticket. 
 Consequently pressed against the outer railing 
 were the lean and hungry populace of Baden 
 Baden. The taste in my mouth grew bitter. It 
 suddenly became very difficult to go on with this 
 life of luxury. 
 
 The next morning we visited the baths. They 
 are gorgeous affairs much like those of ancient 
 Rome. There is every conceivable kind of 
 treatment for every conceivable disease. Whole 
 houses devoted to vapor inhalations. After we 
 had all been treated and reduced to sneezes and 
 coughs we were conducted by funicular to the 
 top of a two thousand foot mountain. 
 
 Baden Baden is a heavenly spot. From that 
 176 
 
A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS 
 
 glorious mountain top the glowing landscape 
 stretches out on every side. It was impossible 
 to believe war raged a few miles aw T ay. There 
 was the shining meadow land with the glittering- 
 Rhine, winding in and out; the thickly wooden 
 hills, somber in shadows, fitting their name 
 " Black Forest," and far off on the horizon dimly 
 rose a church steeple. It marked the city of 
 Strassburg. On a clear day when the wind is 
 right the booming of cannon can be heard. 
 
 But nothing in that serene and smiling scene 
 spoke of death. I remembered the remark of a 
 German woman ; " Thank God," she said, " the 
 fighting is n't in our land. We are suffering 
 badly, but at least our beloved country is n't be- 
 ing destroyed." 
 
 Again the " Stadt " fed us. This time on the 
 mountain top. Again we clinked glasses and 
 drank toasts. In the afternoon a special electric 
 car took us about the town. We saw parks and 
 fountains and flower gardens and the modern 
 art gallery, and were introduced to the aged and 
 distinguished painter, Hans Thoma. 
 
 At five o'clock we again set forth in our pri- 
 vate car. This time for Heidelberg. I had begun 
 to grow very weary of constant entertainment, 
 
 177 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 besides I felt myself a prisoner. I had over- 
 heard the gentleman who danced attendance at 
 Baden Baden say to my future guide in Heidel- 
 berg, as he delivered me over, " Never let her out 
 of your sight." 
 
 At Heidelberg there was a quiet dinner in the 
 hotel, but in the evening we were given a con- 
 cert in the Park, where more beer and wine 
 flowed. It was a dreary affair. Few people 
 were present. Heidelberg is no longer the gay, 
 alive, little university town I had known a few 
 years before. A great stillness hangs over it. 
 Scarcely any one moves on the streets. The uni- 
 versity grounds are empty. No students flocked 
 to patisseries for cafe and appel-kuchen. There 
 is no appel-kuchen. Only soldiers file past, most 
 of them mere boys. 
 
 Heidelberg outdid herself for our entertain- 
 ment. She had requisitioned some official auto- 
 mobiles for our service. The next morning came 
 the great adventure. We were taken to visit a 
 camp for war prisoners. It is a camp for Eng- 
 lish, French, and Russian officers. It is situated 
 on the outskirts of the town. The buildings are 
 the new barracks recently erected for German sol- 
 diers, but never so used. With the automobiles 
 
 178 
 
The Prison Camp at Heidelberg for French, English, and Russian 
 
 Officers 
 
 The Sitting- Room in the Prison Camp at Heidelberg 
 
A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS 
 
 we were there in a few moments. As we passed 
 inside the high wire fence we saw a great open 
 square. This was laid out in three tennis courts. 
 Unmistakable Englishmen were playing strenu- 
 ous tennis. There were 300 prisoners, including 
 officers and orderlies. We spent an hour in in- 
 spection and were hurried from room to room. 
 There was a billiard room, a sitting-room, li- 
 brary, dining-room, kitchen, and sleeping quar- 
 ters, also a shop. All the prisoners receive 
 money from home. In the store they can buy 
 anything from tennis rackets to food. The 
 actual cash is not given the men but instead an 
 equivalent in imitation money. 
 
 We saw more of the buildings than the pris- 
 oners, but those we saw looked well. They had 
 color and life. There was no doubt the camp 
 was a good one. But there was no fraternizing 
 between the German officers and the prisoners. 
 All were rigidly silent. I spoke a Word of greet- 
 ing to one or two English and French officers. 
 Their faces lit up when addressed, and their eyes 
 shone, when I added, " I am an American." 
 One Englishman volunteered : " You don't 
 know how good it is to speak to a woman ; it 's 
 so long since we ? ve seen any one but the enemy." 
 
 181 
 
SHORT BATIONS 
 
 Some men had been interned two years. I knew 
 they must be homesick and I wanted to give them 
 news from home but dared not. I heard a young 
 American, a volunteer in the English army, was 
 in camp. I asked permission to speak to him 
 privately. This was granted. I stepped to one 
 side with the youth. We had only gotten as far as 
 his name (C. G. Martin) when my ever-faithful 
 attendant loomed up. Further confessions were 
 useless. I tried to warn the young American. 
 I feared he would mistake my companion for a 
 compatriot, for that gentleman spoke excellent 
 English and had no Teutonic earmarks. But 
 young Martin didn't heed the warning. He 
 continued blithely, " There is much to complain 
 of in the camp, the beds are terribly hard and 
 there is frightful overcrowding." The German 
 gentleman at my elbow turned red, but to me 
 the criticism was trivial. That a wealthy, young 
 American should limit his criticisms to hard beds 
 and overcrowding indicated clearly the camp 
 was a good one. But more followed. He con- 
 tinued: "An English officer by the name of 
 McLane tried to escape and got caught. He has 
 been put in solitary confinement without trial. 
 For ten days he has had no exercise and is grow- 
 
 182 
 
A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS 
 
 ing ill." By this time my German companion 
 was enraged. I dare delay departure no longer. 
 As we left we brought Mr. McLane's case before 
 the German officials. They said he was receiv- 
 ing the same discipline a German soldier would 
 have had to endure for a similar offense. I did 
 not doubt this. I remembered the wounded at 
 the Lazarette. German soldiers are suffering 
 greater torment at the hand of their own Govern- 
 ment than are the enemy prisoners. 
 
 But the prison camp at Heidelberg was de- 
 pressing. Places of confinement always are. It 
 was the depression of suppression. There is a re- 
 lentlessness about the German official that to a 
 free spirit is suffocating. As an honored guest 
 even I felt it. I had become suddenly glad I 
 was an American. Not from love of country but 
 because America is a democracy. Champagne, 
 hand-kissing, and physical comfort cannot take 
 the place of liberty. 
 
 From the prison camp we went to inspect the 
 gas works. These had recently been built and 
 were shown us as a demonstration of what Ger- 
 many can do in spite of war. From the gas 
 works we repaired to the famous sixteenth cen- 
 tury restaurant " Der Ritter." Here we had 
 
 183 
 
SHOET BATIONS 
 
 light luncheon of more beer and wine, and cavier 
 sandwiches. Yes — real cavier. 
 
 After this treat we walked to the ancient 
 " Schloss." It is a massive half-ruined castle on 
 the hillside. We sat on broken pillars and lis- 
 tened to a historical discourse. At two o'clock 
 we were on top of a mountain having an- 
 other gorgeous repast, given by the city. We 
 had a private dining-room with a table for sixty. 
 There were flowers for the ladies, and six or seven 
 courses and unlimited beverages. I begun to 
 throw a hate on drinks. My sleep had become 
 troubled dreams of processions of mittagessens 
 and abemdessens. No wonder reporters who 
 make official tours and never see anything else 
 of Germany report the land flowing with plenty. 
 
 In the afternoon we had a beautiful motor trip. 
 We went far out into the country following the 
 course of the Necker. This part of Germany is 
 smiling and fertile, quite different from the 
 North. About Hamburg and Berlin and on the 
 journey to the south the land was barren, dry, 
 and juiceless. It looked moth-eaten and fly- 
 bitten. The lack of fertility showed in pale 
 faces and lusterless hair, and the thinness and 
 stringiness of the meat and fish. 
 
 184 
 
A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS 
 
 Late that afternoon the pilgrimage began 
 again. This time we went to Mannheim. We 
 arrived at seven. Here we produced every speck 
 of finery. The " Stadt " gave us a magnificent 
 dinner in the Friederich's park. It seemed to 
 me I should die if I drank another toast, but I saw 
 a failure to appear would be taken amiss. 
 
 That night Italy and Rumania declared war, 
 but the dinner party was as joyous as ever. 
 Neither by look or word was there a sign that 
 anything had happened. These smiling gentle- 
 men had the confidence of gods. One could not 
 but admire their bearing. The Rumanian re- 
 porter in our midst had to leave, but he was 
 strongly pro-German and declared as he departed 
 he would never return to his country. 
 
 During the succeeding days it was evident 
 from the newspapers and the talk that Germany 
 was concentrating on her new enemy. Rumania 
 had great wheat and oil supplies. These must 
 be had. Germany's best generals and best 
 troops were moved quickly to the Rumania front. 
 With food and grease beyond the border the 
 army could be counted on for heroic deeds. 
 
 The first morning in Mannheim I woke sud- 
 denly. For a moment I did n't realize where I 
 
 185 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 was. I liad been given a parlor suite. I was 
 lost in my gigantic sitting-room with five win- 
 dows. I lay still a moment. Then gay music 
 came floating through the window. It was that 
 which had awakened me. I stepped out on my 
 balcony. It was early, only seven. There was a 
 drizzly rain. Not a pedestrian was on the street, 
 but coming down the square was a regiment of 
 soldiers. The band played cheerily, but the 
 men's feet dragged. Tired eyes looked out of 
 pale faces. Great God, how long was this horror 
 to keep up! I felt as though I was going mad. 
 To dine in a rose garden and awaken to such a 
 scene. Germany was getting on my nerves. 
 
 That morning our time was divided between 
 a slaughter-house and a milk depot. These visits 
 were intended to show Germany's great food 
 supply. At the slaughter-yards were four great 
 buildings for animals, but only one was occupied. 
 A bullock was to be killed for our benefit. Poor, 
 little lonely bullock. I was n't, of course, pres- 
 ent at the death, but the men reporters crowded 
 to the slaughter. There was something pathetic 
 in the incident. Reporters from every quarter 
 of the globe under the escort of prominent Ger- 
 man citizens — assembled to see Germany kill 
 
 186 
 
A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS 
 
 one bullock. It was the only creature slain dur- 
 ing our hour's stay. The importance of the 
 event demonstrated as nothing else could Ger- 
 many's need. In fact the whole trip was evi- 
 dence of that — " Why spend vast sums on lunch- 
 eons and dinners to impress reporters? Why 
 not let us make tours of inspection unsuper- 
 vised? " 
 
 In the milk depots there were four great tanks 
 and only one in use. AH the cream from this 
 supply was being turned into butter and put in 
 cold storage. 
 
 In another building a dozen women were cut- 
 ting and drying vegetables, string beans and po- 
 tatoes, and storing them in bags for the winter. 
 But such work done by hand is a drop in the 
 bucket. Hand labor could n't even supply an 
 industrial center like Mannheim. 
 
 At noon there was an elaborate luncheon in a 
 hotel given by the Merchants' Association and 
 after that a special treat. A Rhine steamboat 
 had been chartered. It was decorated from stem 
 to stern with gay flags and bunting. It looked 
 like the Kaiser's yacht on a spree. The entire 
 populace of Mannheim came to the river front 
 to view it. This was the first evidence of luxury 
 
 187 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 and festivity tlie city had had since the war. The 
 crowd broke into cheers. It didn't know what 
 it was cheering for, but it was good to yell for 
 something. At departure ours was the only boat 
 on the Rhine. Women and children ran along 
 the banks and waved at us. At every little vil- 
 lage the entire town turned out. To have some- 
 thing happen was a godsend. For two years 
 nothing had occurred but death notices. Dur- 
 ing the afternoon our boat passed two others. 
 The wharves along the river front were empty 
 and still. This is the tragedy of Germany. Its 
 internal silence and decay. Activity, except to 
 create necessities, has stopped. There is no pil- 
 ing up of goods for America. Smoke comes but 
 from one factory in four. Supplies and workers 
 are giving out. There is little leather. Chil- 
 dren in Berlin are going barefoot. The blankets 
 to go under horse saddles are giving out. Linen 
 and cotton for fuses are running low. All the 
 linen in Belgium has been appropriated. Rub- 
 ber is very scarce. In a dark corner of a muni- 
 tion factory I saw rubber tubes from hospital 
 douche bags piled high to be turned into muni- 
 tion. Every family has given all the brass or 
 copper it had. Of what use are outer victories 
 
 188 
 
A TOUR FOR JOURNALISTS 
 
 when internally the kingdom cracks and 
 crumbles. 
 
 In gardens sun flowers are cherished instead 
 of roses for they give a drop of oil. In barren 
 fields an old woman and scarecrow keep guard. 
 Or a woman with a baby in a carriage and two 
 toddlers at her skirt tries to toss hay. And 
 funereal wreaths pass and repass through the 
 land. 
 
 The soldiers at the front push forward, but at 
 home death lurks. Under such circumstances of 
 what avail are military triumphs and militar- 
 ism? They are but hollow mockeries. 
 
 189 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 WOMEN FACTORY WORKERS 
 
 E journalists had been five days on our 
 sightseeing tour when we reached Mann- 
 heim. On the sixth day came the trip on the 
 Ehine. Our gayly decorated boat had a destina- 
 tion. It was a large paper factory situated on 
 the river bank. This factory manufactured 
 many useful things besides paper. Silk was ex- 
 tracted from wood fiber. Also a thread which 
 when woven made sacks for the army. Burlap is 
 scarce. The raw material was supplied by a lit- 
 tle forest directly in the rear. The trees were 
 cut down and shipped on a single rail track to 
 the factory gates. Germany is using up her 
 wood supply. The workers employed numbered 
 a thousand as compared to two thousand before 
 the war. The factory runs in two shifts, going 
 night and day. There are several hundred 
 women. Formerly, except for office work, there 
 were none. The women perform heavy manual 
 
 190 
 
WOMEN FACTOKY WOEKEES 
 
 labor. A gang of them were aiding Eussian 
 prisoners unload tree trunks. They were 
 handling logs five times as big as themselves. 
 Many of these women were mothers. They wore 
 bloomers and had their feet swathed in rags. 
 Their pay was from 2 to 3 marks (50 to 75 
 cents) a day. The Eussian prisoners looked ut- 
 terly wretched. They were thin and pale. 
 They had great difficulty keeping up with the 
 women. I commented on their appearance. 
 "Yes," I was told, "they have a hard time. 
 Their country doesn't send them any money. 
 We try to give them a mark (24 cents) a day, but 
 it is hard to live on that." As we passed out of 
 sight of the prisoners I heard a German fore- 
 man angrily order more speed. 
 
 The German women and Eussian prisoners 
 worked side by side without hostility. There is 
 no conversation, but once I saw a woman secret- 
 edly assist a sickly Eussian. It recalled the 
 stories of German feminists. They were greatly 
 enraged at the imprisonment of certain women. 
 The German soldiers in Belgium, Poland, 
 and elsewhere are encouraged to seek fe- 
 male society. Children born from such unions 
 are considered German, and therefore desired. 
 
 191 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 But a German woman must not be friendly with 
 a foreign prisoner. Even a mild flirtation or 
 words of sympathy bring a prison sentence. If 
 she should have a child it would hot be German. 
 Such injustices do not go unnoticed. Women 
 are thinking. The modern German woman 
 reasons and backs her reason with passionate 
 energy. Heaven help the Government if she 
 once gets started. Something will give some- 
 where. I asked the employer if the woman's 
 labor was satisfactory. " Very," he said. 
 u We will probably want to keep them after the 
 war." 
 
 As we left the factory the whistle blew. It 
 was six p. m., and time for shifting workers. At 
 the entrance were many tiny children and babies 
 in baby carriages with eager faces and out- 
 stretched arms waiting for Mother. 
 
 As we boarded our resplendent craft the 
 workers crowded to the river bank. They were 
 silent but interested. It was something cheer- 
 ful to see. This factory suburb had no 
 " movies," no amusements, only dreary beer gar- 
 dens, half-filled with sad, sorrowing people. 
 
 That night we had dinner at Mannheim in the 
 Eose Garden. A group of business men enter- 
 
 192 
 
Hotel Marquardt 
 
 5TUTT6ART 
 
 Fleischloser Tag 
 
 Bienatagt&en 29. August 1916 1 
 
 MaimeM Suffle 
 Rheimalm nitOzevettentunke 
 
 S?inatbmtlinge 
 Bndidien-Salat n.TOten RUhen 
 IhUrtngex-Aejtfel 
 
 Hndsrangsn Esrden 
 Wonders berechnet. 
 
 A facsimile of the luncheon menu card at the Hotel Marquardt Stuttgart. 
 
 193 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 tained us. I could not drink to another un- 
 known toast, so I raised my glass and tried iny 
 hand, " Here 's to a just peace." Instantly every 
 glass went up in joyful assent. The man next to 
 me had tears in his eyes. Later he saw me to the 
 hotel entrance, and as he stooped to kiss my hand 
 said, " Thank you for that toast." 
 
 Next day we went to Stuttgart. At the sta- 
 tion no citizens greeted us. Other cities had 
 feted us, but here two unknown men were our 
 escort. We went to the best hotel, and ate our 
 lunch unheralded. I managed to smuggle out 
 the menu. The lunch consisted of soup, fish, spin- 
 ach, lettuce salad and a cooked apple, and cost 
 one dollar. 
 
 There was no bread, butter or sugar. If you 
 had a bread card you received one piece of bread. 
 Such a meal has no substance. 
 
 In the afternoon w T e visited a piano factory. 
 It occupied half a block. There were perhaps 
 two dozen workers, nearly all old men. It was a 
 pitiful affair. The manager said he had ten 
 times as many orders as he could fill. 
 
 Citizens in neutral countries who have made 
 fortunes want luxuries, but the piano manufac- 
 turer could not get workers or wood. The white 
 
 194 
 
WOMEN FACTORY WORKERS 
 
 mahogany needed comes from America. Ger- 
 many is not piling up goods. She has neither 
 workers or raw material. Many factories are 
 closed. 
 
 That evening we journalists had again to be 
 content with our own society. The Prussian 
 Press was not looked upon with favor by the 
 Duchy of Wiirttemberg. Permission had been 
 given by the Prussian civil authorities to visit a 
 Russian prison camp at Stuttgart but the Wiirt- 
 temberg military authorities flatly refused ad- 
 mittance. A reporter from Holland, disgusted 
 with the little he had seen and the refusal to let 
 him visit a prison camp, left in wrath. 
 
 The next day the rest of us meekly inspected 
 the Bosch munition factories. These factories 
 formerly made magnetos. Now they turn out 
 great quantities of munitions. Before the war 
 there were 6000 workers. There are still that 
 number. But formerly only 700 women were 
 employed, now there are 4000. Women are han- 
 dling big machines. They manage their elec- 
 trically run engines swiftly and well. 
 
 A member of the Bosch family was my guide. 
 To my inquiries he replied, " The women work as 
 well as men, but they can't repair their machines, 
 
 195 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 and they get ill. Five times as many women as 
 men have to be laid off each week." 
 
 " Perhaps/' I suggested, " they get thinking 
 about their men at the front." 
 
 " No, that can't be," he said. " We speed up 
 the machines and there is no time for thought." 
 
 Of the 4000 women, 1200 were mothers. The 
 best pay for the women was 50 pfennig or 12 
 cents an hour, though for the same work a man 
 received 80 pfennig or 19 cents. 
 
 The Bosch factories run night and day in eight- 
 hour shifts. Sometimes the same laborers work 
 through two shifts. I asked about the home life 
 of the women. The Social Worker at the fac- 
 tory gave me several stories. This is one of 
 them. " The woman you inquired about lives in 
 a suburb. She must have been good-looking 
 when she was young, but she has given birth to 
 twelve children, the oldest is thirteen and the 
 youngest six months. Four of her children died. 
 Marie, the oldest girl, is thirteen; Wilhelm, 12; 
 Gertrude, 10; Hilda, 7; Mina, 6; Helen, 4; Er- 
 win, 3; and Gretel 6 months. Her husband 
 worked for nine years in the factory. When the 
 war broke out he was mobilized and joined the 
 army August 4, 1914. Until then they had been 
 
 196 
 
WOMEN FACTORY WOEKERS 
 
 happy, but that changed everything. They had 
 to move out of their house. They took an apart- 
 ment of two rooms. It was crowded with nine 
 people in two rooms, but they could not afford 
 anything better. The birth of the last child 
 caused the mother great suffering and she had 
 to give up her factory work. Besides, the little 
 children needed her at home. The imperial au- 
 thorities give her 75 marks for her husband and 
 the municipal authorities 20 marks for relief. 
 Now that she is n't able to work, Mr. Bosch gives 
 her 84 marks (half her husband's former wages) . 
 Altogether she received 179 marks a month 
 (about $44, but because of depreciation really 
 less). She pays 20 marks ($4) for her rent. 
 The woman is weak and much shaken in health. 
 At night she worries about her husband and can- 
 not sleep. She weeps a great deal and really the 
 burden laid on her is almost too heavy. She 
 said to me: "We could not possibly live if it 
 was not for the Bosch allowance. All prices 
 have gone up 100 per cent. In order to buy shoes 
 one must do without almost everything else. I 
 cannot go on much longer. I do not mean to 
 complain, and I thank God for what I have had, 
 but it exceeds the strength of one woman to pro- 
 
 197 
 
SHOBT RATIONS 
 
 vide clothes for eight little children and feed so 
 many mouths regularly." 
 
 But this woman is better off than most. 
 Women generally have to live on the govern- 
 ment allowance. In this case 95 marks a month. 
 That is why so many mothers go to work. The 
 mother's earnings, plus the husband's pay as a 
 soldier, about equal the man's wages before the 
 war. But prices have everywhere doubled. 
 
 As we went through the factory we saw a group 
 of one-armed men workers. They had the steel 
 arms with iron hooks, the week-day arms. 
 
 " We like," said Mr. Bosch, " to take wounded 
 men. It makes them feel they are still men if 
 they can work." 
 
 " How much do they earn? " I inquired. 
 
 Mr. Bosch stepped over to an energetic cripple 
 and repeated my question. I was close at his 
 heels, and I heard the answer, " Nothing at all." 
 Nothing at all! Yet this man worked eight 
 hours a day and handled a big machine. He had 
 to live on the government pension. 
 
 It was in the Bosch factories I spied the tell- 
 tale pile of rubber tubing from douche bags. 
 Bicycles in shop windows and on the street are 
 tireless. On September 1st, there were no more 
 . 198 
 
WOMEN FACTORY WORKERS 
 
 rubber tires for automobiles. It is difficult to 
 make munitions without rubber. The Bosch fam- 
 ily have munition factories in America. It is the 
 same concern and has a common capital. But 
 Bosch in America, it was said, makes munitions 
 for the Allies, while his brother, or his 
 uncle (whichever the relationship is), makes 
 munitions for Germany. The Social Democrats 
 in Stuttgart got wind of this and broke 
 out in revolt. Bosch was summoned to 
 court and tried. But the judge exonerated him, 
 saying : " Mr. Bosch has done nothing detri- 
 mental to the interests of his country." This 
 same judge was willing to imprison 400 persons 
 for clamoring for peace. 
 
 Life does not flow smoothly in Stuttgart. The 
 people are restless. In the evening the workers 
 crowd upon the street. I longed to investigate, 
 but could not escape supervision. I decided to 
 break way from the journalist expedition. Be- 
 sides, on the following day I had agreed to meet 
 my Berlin friend in Nuremberg. I feared to 
 wire a change of plans lest we be prevented meet- 
 ing. All her letters are opened, even those from 
 her children. The military authorities supervise 
 internal mail. Letters going from one part of 
 
 199 
 
SHOET RATIONS 
 
 Berlin to another are inspected. My notes were 
 opened. 
 
 The director of the expedition strenuously op- 
 posed my departure. I escaped only by stating 
 where I was going, to what hotel, and what train 
 I should take. I was also obliged to visit the 
 police and lay my plans before them. I boarded 
 the train with a sigh of relief. It was good to be 
 a little bit free again. My heart beat fast as we 
 drew into Nuremberg at 8 P. m. Would my 
 friend be there? Anxiously I scanned the long 
 line of waiting people. Then my eye lighted on 
 her. We fell into each other's arms. Lack of 
 communication is a terrific strain. To live in a 
 state of doubt and unrest is terrible. It gets on 
 one's nerves. 
 
 We went to the biggest and most expensive 
 hotel. Many of the employees in such places 
 are spies. They are not at all cordial. It is a 
 disagreeable atmosphere, but to deliberately live 
 where one can be watched is disarming. It 
 makes one seem harmless. 
 
 That evening before retiring we looked under 
 the beds and in all the closets for spies. Then 
 we settled down to a whispered heart-to-heart 
 talk on Germany. For two days we had a heav- 
 
 200 
 
WOMEN FACTORY WORKERS 
 
 enly time. I wanted my friend to forget the 
 horrors of war. One can almost do this in Nu- 
 remberg. It is a sort of backwater. It breathes 
 antiquity. It is quite outside modern life. Its 
 quaint canals and bridges and old buildings date 
 from the fourteenth century. Albert Dtirer's 
 house is as it was in 1500. Wars flood the land, 
 but here life remains the same. Yet Nuremberg 
 suffers. Its prosperity depends on the tourists. 
 Formerly one of the richest cities in Germany, 
 it grows daily poorer. The woman guide in 
 Dtirer's house was overjoyed to see us. She in- 
 sisted on talking English. " It will give me a 
 little practice," she said. " I have forgotten 
 nearly all I know, and what shall I do when tour- 
 ists come again? " 
 
 From Nuremberg we went to Munich. The 
 farther south we went, the richer grew the land. 
 The country around Berlin is a barren desert by 
 comparison. And with the increased fertility a 
 corresponding change is noticeable in the people. 
 
 The Prussians are cold and proud. The Ba- 
 varians warm and friendly. In our second- 
 class compartment was a Bavarian merchant. 
 He was a man of means in the employ of the 
 Government. We were in a nonsmoking com- 
 
 201 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 partment, but we saw the gentleman cherishing 
 good cigars. We won favor by suggesting he 
 smoke. He began to talk freely. He had just 
 returned from Switzerland. He displayed a 
 choice brand of Parisian perfume. " It 's for 
 my wife/' he said. " I managed to smuggle it 
 through from Switzerland. Paid 20 marks for 
 it. There is none to be had in Germany." After 
 we had admired his purchase, he continued: 
 " This war is terrible. I came back from Po- 
 land a short time ago. The suffering is unbe- 
 lievable. The children on the street are skin 
 and bones. I began giving them pennies, but I 
 saw it was useless. A little money is no good. 
 Hundreds are starving. I am sure I don't know 
 what we are coming to. Our own situation is 
 bad. Now that Rumania has gone against us, 
 the Russian will try to join her and cut us off 
 from Turkey. Besides, Bulgaria isn't always 
 friendly; she swings first one way and then an- 
 other, and Greece is on the eve of revolution. 
 But we must manage somehow. We can't af- 
 ford to be cut off in the East." After a few 
 moments' silence my friend ventured some re- 
 marks concerning peace. The merchant con- 
 tinued: "Every one wants peace, including 
 
 202 
 
WOMEN FACTORY WORKERS 
 
 the Government, but the Government is in a 
 tight place. It doesn't dare to continue the 
 war, and it 's afraid to make peace. There is 
 no knowing what will happen when peace comes. 
 Other nations won't have anything to do with 
 Germany. There will be no trade. The peo- 
 ple will riot. Germany won't be a fit place to 
 live in." 
 
 Our train was drawing into Munich and we 
 said good-by to the friendly merchant. 
 
 At the hotel we discovered one of the eminent 
 citizens from Mannheim. He had been my con- 
 stant companion during my stay there. Had he 
 been sent to see if I had arrived in Munich and 
 spy on my plans? We grew uneasy. Hence- 
 forth we called all spies by his name, Danstar- 
 ter. Every day we systematically searched our 
 rooms for Mr. Danstarter. But we found the 
 atmosphere of Munich freer and more cheerful 
 than Berlin. The people and the animals look 
 healthier; the fodder is better; the cattle are 
 still fat; the people walk with a spring. They 
 are sad and sorrowing, but still possess vitality. 
 But the Bavarians begin to hate the Prussians. 
 It crops out everywhere. The first morning in 
 Munich the hotel chambermaid delivered herself 
 
 203 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 of her emotions. We were not up — but en- 
 couraged by our friendliness she stood at the 
 foot of the bed and let forth a volume. "A 
 curse on 1870," was her startling beginning. 
 " It was a sad day for Bavaria when she tied 
 up with Prussia. They are bleeding our coun- 
 try to death. Twice as many Bavarians have 
 been killed as Prussians. We have the worst of 
 the fighting. Our men carried Verdun, twice 
 by assault, and then the Prussians let it slip 
 through their fingers. Our men were ordered to 
 take it for the third time. They refused. Then 
 Prussia said unless the men obeyed they would 
 be shot. But our king answered, ' Not one one 
 man shall die.' The King and the Kaiser have 
 since made it up, but I tell you the Bavarians 
 hate the Prussians. They are taking our food 
 from us. We had butter, but now it is all gone. 
 The Prussian organization does n't help the 
 poor. We get nothing. If you beg you get a 
 little help, otherwise nothing. We live on 
 bread and potatoes. It 's all we have. In the 
 spring the potatoes gave out. There were riots. 
 A policeman was killed and several women were 
 shot. I am not a Social Democrat, but I 'm be- 
 ginning to feel they are right. I think the Ger- 
 
 204 
 
WOMEN FACTORY WORKERS 
 
 man Government wants to kill off a lot of the 
 men so it can make the others do what they 
 like. Nothing will happen now; we are help- 
 less; but if our soldiers come back, then there 
 will be a revolution. A little while ago two 
 Bavarian regiments were sent to the front. They 
 were fine young men. Each wore a flower in 
 his button-hole. I saw them start off. They 
 were sent straight to the firing-line. They 
 stepped out of the cars into the middle of battle. 
 Before they had walked a dozen steps every one 
 was shot down. Those two regiments were en- 
 tirely wiped out in a few minutes. I tell you 
 we hate the Prussians. The Prussian officials 
 in Bavaria are very strict. They are afraid 
 we '11 go against them, and they are doing 
 everything to prevent it. The King and the 
 Kaiser are friends, but you wait until after the 
 war ! " 
 
 This news was vastly interesting. It was 
 midday before we let our little maid go, or 
 thought of getting up. Everywhere we went we 
 heard the same story. The friction between 
 Prussia and Bavaria is natural. The warm, 
 friendly South is as different from the cold, 
 stern North, as the French are from the Eng- 
 
 205 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 lish. All sorts of forces are astir in Germany. 
 The working people are nnfed and overworked 
 and hate Prussian organization. The women see 
 their babies go without milk and they hate Prus- 
 sian organization. The women in the factories 
 are paid less than the men and they hate Prus- 
 sian organization. The soldiers are under- 
 nourished and killed by the millions and they 
 hate Prussian organization. The Liberals see 
 that without universal democratic representa- 
 tion they are helpless, and they hate Prussian 
 organization. The duchies in the southeast are 
 bled and they hate Prussian organization. This 
 stored-up emotion must have an outlet. With 
 peace will come the reckoning. 
 
 206 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 PEACE MEETINGS IN MUNICH 
 
 September, 1916. 
 'UNICH still retains its attractiveness. Its 
 buildings are varied and expressive, not 
 well ordered and methodical. It has touches of 
 Bohemia and Paris. Women sit at cafes and 
 smoke, and little groups gather to discuss knotty 
 problems. Spies are abroad, but despite them 
 people talk. One evening I had several mem- 
 bers of the Liebknecht clan at the hotel. For 
 two hours we sat in the restaurant and de- 
 nounced Prussian organization. When a waiter 
 approached, voices dropped. Still we talked on. 
 This would not have been possible in Berlin. 
 But Bavaria is torn between two elements — 
 the workers and the aristocrats. The wealthy 
 have been Prussianized; the workers only to a 
 small extent. This is how that happened. Offi- 
 cial Germany tries to Prussianize her people 
 through education. All schools are under cen- 
 
 207 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 tral control. My friend in girlhood was a 
 teacher. Though a German for generations, she 
 conies of Jewish stock. In her native town far 
 from Berlin she taught history. When the cen- 
 tral school authorities learned of this, they sent 
 the following order to the school principal: 
 " Do not let that young woman teach history. 
 Only a Prussian may teach German history. Let 
 her teach mathematics." 
 
 But Prussia has made one great mistake. A 
 high school education must be paid for. Free 
 education stops with the grammar school. The 
 poor are not as Prussianized as the rich. Army 
 officers must have a high school education. 
 Consequently officers come from the wealthy class 
 and are Prussianized. But the uneducated are 
 free to think. And Bavarians think. The peo- 
 ple's influence is everywhere manifest. The 
 food distribution is fairer. Wild birds are to 
 be had without meat cards, but not chickens or 
 ducks. For all supplies, visitors must have 
 cards. The hotels furnish only bread and meat 
 tickets. I refused to go through the red tape 
 needed to secure magistrate's cards for other edi- 
 bles. The result made meals frugal. Eagerly 
 I would scan a bill of fare. My eye would light 
 
 208 
 
PEACE MEETINGS IN MUNICH 
 
 on a pudding. Pudding is a luxury. " I '11 
 have some/' I 'd order. " I 'in sorry, Madame/' 
 the waiter would reply, "but the pudding con- 
 tains an egg and you have no egg card." In 
 despair I would turn to something else. " Give 
 me this/' I would urge. But again would come 
 the answer, " I 'm sorry, Madame, but that con- 
 tains meal and you have no meal card." Food 
 is richer in Munich than in Berlin, for fodder is 
 better and the animals fatter. But I had less 
 to eat than in Prussia. 
 
 Yet in spite of Bavaria's attempt to democ- 
 ratize food, her poor go hungry. As in Berlin, 
 there are long lines of people struggling for po- 
 tatoes. The wages of unskilled workers have 
 not perceptibly increased. The poor can't af- 
 ford the city feeding kitchens. Munich is one 
 of Germany's richest cities but it has extreme 
 poverty. Its slums are picturesque but relics 
 of the Dark Ages. In one section is a group of 
 tiny, cellarless houses. They have quaint gables 
 and chimneys, and look big enough for Tom 
 Thumb and his wife. But they hang over dirty 
 little canals. They have no running water. A 
 toilet and a pump common to all is situated in 
 the street. Ill health is the result. 
 
 209 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 The Social Democrats are indignant over this 
 sore. They resent such wretchedness in wealthy 
 Munich. "People are starving," they declare, 
 and sent me to a church to see poverty at its 
 worst. The church belongs to a group of Do- 
 minican monks. The friars beg on the street 
 corner for food. Whatever they get they put 
 into a big pot and boil. The liquid mass so 
 made is served each day free to the poor. The 
 hour for distribution is noon. At eleven, hu- 
 manity's dregs begin to assemble — tottering old 
 men with white beards and tattered clothes, 
 skinny, bent old women swathed in rags, and 
 barefooted, dirty, ghastly pale children. Some of 
 the children had a cup. They mean to take a 
 portion of slops home to mother or grandmother. 
 But most could n't affords cups. They possessed 
 only a spoon. The stench from the thin, brown 
 liquid was nauseating. A big, iron pot was 
 placed on a stool. The little crowd gathered 
 about. There were no chairs. Tottering old 
 people and tiny children huddled over the sick- 
 ening mess. Simultaneously they dove in 
 spoons and began shoveling down the liquid. 
 The lips sucked in. There were gurgles and 
 snorts. They were like dogs about a bone. 
 
 210 
 
PEACE MEETINGS IN MUNICH 
 
 They snatched and shoved and grunted. One 
 old man, luckier than the rest, possessed a 
 cup. In spite of his rags he was stately. He 
 had white hair and a white beard and a splen- 
 didly shaped head. He looked a second Carlyle. 
 He took his cup to the churchyard. But there 
 he stood. He was too hungry to go farther. He 
 drank ravenously and licked every inch of the 
 cup. A terrible nausea seized me. I turned 
 away, shaken. I still had some money from 
 the Christian Work Fund. I turned to the 
 young Social Democrat. 
 
 " I know it is n't solving any problem," I said, 
 " but let 's feed them." 
 
 She nodded and her face lighted up. " Sup- 
 pose we take them to the City feeding kitchen," 
 she suggested. 
 
 I agreed. We lined up the little company. 
 They couldn't believe the news. Each was 
 afraid to be last lest he be left. Down the street 
 we went, a great row of bowed and bent old 
 people shuffling after, and little children cling- 
 ing to our skirts. We bought meal tickets for 
 each for a week. As the checks were handed 
 out a gnarled and twisted old figure would shoot 
 down the entrance hall to the big eating room. 
 
 211 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 Youth for a moment came back to those tottering 
 feet. They ran half tumbling. There was no 
 time for thanks. Death was at the door and life 
 had suddenly been thrust out to them. 
 
 We stayed with the children. There were 
 nine in one family. The father was in the war 
 and the mother ill in bed. Another group of 
 seven had no mother, and the father was in a 
 munition factory. We bought these families 
 meal tickets for a month. I turned over all that 
 remained of the Christian Work Fund, and 
 asked my young guide to buy as many meal tick- 
 ets as possible for unfed school children. 
 
 This is one side of Munich. But there is an- 
 other. Munich does n't indulge in material lux- 
 uries. There are no private autos, but it does 
 continue to keep up its intellectual refinements. 
 Concerts and grand opera prosper. My friend 
 and I went to hear Parsifal. We paid 34 marks 
 for two ordinary seats. The theater where the 
 performance is given is a small opera house, 
 perfect in every way. The ground floor is de- 
 voted to a big eating hall and buffet, which are 
 very popular between acts. The performance be- 
 gan at five. Every person was promptly in his 
 seat. Culture was written large across each face. 
 
 212 
 
PEACE MEETINGS IN MUNICH 
 
 A slender, ultra-refined mother in deep mourning 
 sat directly behind me. On her right side was 
 a son in soldier's uniform, on her left two more 
 sons under sixteen in deep mourning. An in- 
 tellectual calm brooded over the place. There 
 was no chatter, even the young boys were silent. 
 The lights went out. For five minutes we sat 
 in darkness and pondered. Then soft music 
 lulled our nerves. When the world had quite 
 been eliminated, the lights came on and the 
 opera began. It was a gorgeous display of light 
 and color, music and incense. The rich red vel- 
 vet robes of the Parsifal priests, the goblet of 
 wine which turned to fiery red as the Holy Spirit 
 in the form of a dove descended, the sing- 
 ing, music, everything combined to stir, elate, and 
 soothe mind and senses. The audience was 
 transported from the twentieth century back to 
 the Middle Ages. But something in me rebelled. 
 I felt I was being drugged. I and the others 
 were being hypnotized into a disregard of reality. 
 The lesson preached was : " Forget the present, 
 live for the hereafter. Only one thing matters 
 — " Kultur." It must be spread over the earth 
 though mankind be destroyed in the process." 
 But suddenly a picture of the battlefield flashed 
 
 215 
 
SHOKT RATIONS 
 
 upon Hie with its millions of dead. I saw the 
 little group at the church eating like dogs. Hell 
 raged on earth. 
 
 At the end of the first act I said to my friend : 
 " I ? ve got to get out and get some air." 
 
 As we walked on the terrace my friend clung 
 to my arm. " Don't you like it? " she asked. 
 
 " It 's beautiful but suff ocating," was my an- 
 swer. 
 
 Suddenly she turned and hugged me. " Thank 
 God," she said. " I was afraid you 'd be carried 
 away with its beauty like the rest." 
 
 " You mean," I said, " it 's this sort of thing 
 that is taking intellectual freedom out of Ger- 
 many? " 
 
 " That ? s it. Even art and literature are or- 
 ganized. There 's no originality, no new 
 thought, no progress. We live on the glories 
 of the past. Technique and appreciation have 
 been raised to the n th power, but we don't encour- 
 age the new." 
 
 As we went home that evening I thought much 
 of our talk. Germany is producing a very defi- 
 nite culture, but it is a culture that is like Dres- 
 den china. Dresden china epitomizes modern 
 German art. Exquisite, perfect in detail and 
 
 216 
 
PEACE MEETINGS IN MUNICH 
 
 color, but dead, lacking in fire, virility, and 
 griping force. 
 
 But Munich is the most interesting spot in 
 Germany. The middle class, as well as the un- 
 skilled workers, struggle against this relentless 
 organization and seek expression. In Munich I 
 found the friend to whom I had wired so per- 
 sistently from Copenhagen and from whom I 
 could get no reply. Her silence was soon ex- 
 plained. She is the leader of the German 
 branch of the Women's International Peace 
 party, of which Jane Addams is president. She 
 has steadily worked for peace. A year ago she 
 was present at a peace meeting of Social Demo- 
 crats. At that time one of the men urged upon 
 the women the country's need of children. He 
 said : " Remember we need sons for the Revo- 
 lution, as well as for war." Color rushed into 
 
 Fraulein H 's face, anger blazed in her eyes, 
 
 and from the floor of the house she made a pas- 
 sionate appeal. " Do not bring children into the 
 world unless we have the assurance of the men 
 that they shall not be food for cannon," was the 
 substance of her speech. 
 
 Next morning bright and early a policeman 
 
 presented himself at Fraulein H- 's home. 
 
 217 
 
SHOKT RATIONS 
 
 He sat on the edge of a chair and fumbled with 
 his hat. He was a Bavarian and had known 
 
 Fraulein H from girlhood. He knew she 
 
 was a woman of wealth and high standing. He 
 was much embarrassed. As a Bavarian he de- 
 tested Prussian policy but he had to do Ms duty, 
 so he handed out the military order. 
 
 Henceforth Fraulein H was forbidden to 
 
 speak in public, nor might she have more than 
 five people in her house at a time, nor could she 
 send any telegram or letter outside the country, 
 and all her German mail was to be opened 
 and inspected. This was why I hadn't heard. 
 Vainly she had tried to telegraph, and in the 
 end had gotten the friend with whom she lives 
 to wire, trusting I would understand. These 
 two women own a country house in Bavaria and 
 an apartment in Munich. They knew intimately 
 my friend from Berlin. We four spent absorb- 
 ing days together. If it had not been for the 
 streets filled with soldiers and sorrowing people 
 and the shortage of food, I should have forgotten 
 where I was. These women loved the same 
 books, the same pictures, the same works of art, 
 as corresponding groups of women in England 
 and America. Language was the only differ- 
 
 218 
 
PEACE MEETINGS IN MUNICH 
 
 ence. When I sat iu the Munich apartment, I 
 might have been in my studio in Washington 
 Square. We possessed the same customs, the 
 same habits, talked of the same things. To sup- 
 pose that Germans are born of an alien strain 
 is an absurdity. If anything, these German 
 women were superior to any I had known. They 
 had sounded the depth of emotion, had more 
 passionate energy, and were less conventional 
 than the same group in my own country. They 
 are an element Germany will have to reckon 
 with. 
 
 One night we went to a big peace meeting. It 
 was under the auspices of the major wing of 
 the Social Democratic party. The Liebknecht 
 people are not allowed to hold meetings in Mu- 
 nich any more than in Berlin. But peace meet- 
 ings, in spite of restrictions, are popular. The 
 military authorities see to it that the peace terms 
 asked for are confined to demands of the status 
 quo before war. No discussion is allowed. At 
 this meeting there were perhaps two thousand 
 people. It was held in a great hall. The floor 
 was covered with little tables. Beer still flows 
 in Munich. Both the floor and the galleries 
 were packed. People stood about the sides of 
 
 219 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 the room and in the aisles. Men predominated. 
 Even soldiers in uniform were present. My 
 friends and I sat near the front. Friiulein 
 
 H is a member of neither the Liebknecht 
 
 group nor the major wing of the Social Demo- 
 cratic party. The former she feels are too ex- 
 treme, the latter not radical enough, about 
 peace. Except for our group, the audience was 
 made up chiefly of factory workers. It was a 
 keen, alert crowd. The faces were thoughtful 
 and showed much character. These people were 
 not sheep — they were fighters. There was 
 much suppressed emotion, frequent applause 
 and cheers. The speaker said : " The days of 
 ' Got t Straff e England ' are over. We hope the 
 time will soon come when Germans will no 
 longer be called Barhars and Bodies. Perhaps 
 this can best be brought about by promoting the 
 cause of peace. It certainly is distressing to 
 find other nations hating Germany. It will be 
 difficult to carry on trade after the war. There 
 will be no work for the workers. It is essential 
 that peace be made as soon as possible. When 
 it comes perhaps enmity will cease. Witness 
 how Austria and Germany had overlooked 
 differences and come together [laughter], and 
 
 220 
 
PEACE MEETINGS IN MUNICH 
 
 how friendly Prussia and Bavaria now are." 
 [Long derisive laughter which stopped the speech 
 for a few moments.] 
 
 The speaker then went on to discuss economic 
 conditions. He spoke of the suffering of the 
 poor, and said : " The Government has wholly 
 failed to live up to its promise that women and 
 children should be cared for and not suffer when 
 their men went to war." 
 
 He then spoke of Von Hollweg and praised 
 him for his peace talk. [Applause.] He 
 pointed out the difference between Von Holl- 
 weg's desire for peace and Von Tirpitz's policy 
 of submarine frightfulness. He denounced the 
 policy of frightfulness. [Applause.] Then he 
 spoke of the peace petition that had been drawn 
 up. He read the peace proposals which pro- 
 vided for peace on the basis of status quo be- 
 fore the war and urged every one to sign the 
 petition. At the close of the meeting he called 
 for a rising vote on the peace petition. Every 
 one in the room, except my friends, stood up. 
 
 Fraulein H , as a member of the Woman's 
 
 International, wanted freedom for Poland and 
 plebiscite vote for Alsace and Lorraine. My 
 friend from Berlin as a Liebknecht person also 
 
 221 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 wanted more liberal terms. But the audience 
 didn't understand. It thought we were averse, 
 to peace. Angry people crowded around us. 
 We were pushed and shoved. I feared Fraulein 
 
 H would be hit. Several women were 
 
 shaking their fists. One was yelling : " My 
 husband was killed at the front; how dare you 
 not want peace?" Another: "My son has 
 been killed and my husband wounded, how dare 
 you refuse to sign the petition? " I did my best 
 to push the crowd back. We struggled to the 
 
 street, but Fraulein H had her hair pulled 
 
 down and we were considerably mauled before 
 we made the entrance. 
 
 Then Fraulein H turned upon her tor- 
 mentors. She had been powerless in the meet- 
 ing for the police had ordered her not to speak, 
 but in the open she risked it. She is a tall, slen- 
 der woman, with golden hair and blue eyes — a 
 madonna woman — but in her burns white heat. 
 Turning on the crowd and shaking her fist, she 
 hurled at them : " I want peace, but I want a 
 real peace. I am more radical than you." A 
 man in the crowd, evidently one of the Social 
 Democratic leaders, came to our side. He told 
 
 the people who Fraulein H was and what 
 
 222 
 
PEACE MEETINGS IN MUNICH 
 
 she stood for. Abashed, the people moved on 
 and we slipped out into the cool night. 
 
 Yes — German women have courage. They 
 are not sheep. The people in Germany grow rest- 
 less. In Munich I saw their force. The Kaiser 
 has not an easy life ahead. There was one other 
 woman I wished to talk with — Clara Zetkin. 
 She and Liebknecht have fought side by side for 
 the same ends. She is the leader of the radical 
 women of that party, as he is of the men. I 
 spoke to my Berlin friend of my desire. She 
 thought it dangerous, but agreed to the under- 
 taking. Clara Zetkin was imprisoned last spring 
 because of her fight for peace. She remained in 
 prison several months. Then she was released 
 on 5000 marks bail, pending her new trial. She 
 is a woman over sixty and has developed serious 
 heart trouble. The authorities feared she would 
 die on their hands. She lives in Stuttgart — a 
 four hours' trip from Munich. It was impossi- 
 ble to make the trip in a day, but if I left Mu- 
 nich for overnight the passport regulations re- 
 quired me to go to the police and state where 
 I was going. I decided to break the law. At 
 noon one day my Berlin friend and I took the 
 train for Stuttgart. We kept our room at the 
 
 223 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 hotel in Munich. We took no baggage. We 
 told no one of our plans. We hoped in this 
 way to avoid detection. We traveled third 
 class. There are fewer spies in the third 
 class. We arrived in Stuttgart at six. We 
 ate a hasty dinner at the Rathhaus cafe. That 
 restaurant is on the market square. There 
 was the same stir and restlessness among the 
 people I had noticed on my previous visit to 
 Stuttgart. Long lines of people were waiting 
 to buy supplies. That evening it was butter. 
 But the butter gave out before the end of the line 
 was reached. The women grew angry and shook 
 their fists, the police drove them away, but the 
 women went unwillingly. They turned and 
 shouted angrily at the policemen. 
 
 After we had eaten, we took a. car to the sub- 
 urbs. They are quite a distance from the city. 
 When we reached the end of the car line there 
 was still three quarters of an hour's walk 
 through a lonely wood. The darkness was clos- 
 ing in. The sky was overcast with heavy clouds. 
 As we started down the road we noticed a man 
 on the opposite side of the street. We were 
 passing the last house — a little store. My 
 
 224 
 
PEACE MEETINGS IN MUNICH 
 
 friend pulled my arm. We stopped and gazed 
 in the store window. " He is a spy," she whis- 
 pered. We turned and walked in the opposite 
 direction. Sure enough the man ahead had 
 crossed the street and was coming back after us. 
 We walked on until we came to a post-office. 
 There we turned in and made inquiries about 
 our way. When we emerged the man was not 
 to be seen. We started off again down the lonely 
 road. This time no man followed us. It began 
 to rain. A terrific storm had arisen. There 
 were mighty crashes of thunder and brilliant 
 flashes of lightning; the rain came in great 
 sheets. The one umbrella was no protection. 
 We grew soaked, but we thrudged on along the 
 lonely road lined with great trees. At last we 
 saw a light. We were coming to a little vil- 
 lage. The second house was Clara Zetkin's. 
 She was in, of course. Alone, except for a great 
 dog and one maid. Her husband drives an am- 
 bulance for the German Bed Cross, and her two 
 sons are surgeons in base hospitals at the front. 
 She was delighted to see us. We had only in- 
 tended to make a call, but outside the storm 
 raged. Our hostess would not listen to our leav- 
 
 225 
 
SHOKT EATIONS 
 
 ing on such a night. We accepted her invita- 
 tion. It was dangerous to stay, but better to 
 stay than go. We settled down for a long talk, 
 or rather we let Clara Zetkin talk. She is like 
 a blazing comet — over sixty, with white hair 
 and shaken with illness, she fights on. One mo- 
 ment she was pouring forth a torrent of words, 
 the next stricken with pain she lay white and 
 gasping on the sofa, but in an instant she was 
 up again continuing her discourse. Liebknecht's 
 imprisonment had been a great blow. Imprison- 
 ment of nearly all of the leaders had seriously 
 handicapped the work. "We can do nothing 
 now," she said, "but if peace comes you will 
 see. The thing I fear is slow starvation. Half- 
 fed people have no life. If there were no food 
 there would be rebellion, but this — no. We 
 must wait for peace." 
 
 Outside, the storm continued. The rain beat 
 against the window panes, while this little woman 
 talked on. In the morning I might be arrested, 
 but for the moment I did n't care. It had been 
 splendid to see what I had seen — Germany 
 awakening. If all this passionate energy breaks 
 through Prussian organization, what a Germany 
 it will be. America is awake but crude; she is 
 
 226 
 
PEACE MEETINGS IN MUNICH 
 
 original but lacks method. If Germany makes 
 her technique, and industrial efficiency the serv- 
 ants of man instead of his masters, she will lead 
 the world. 
 
 227 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 
 
 MY friend and I spent a restless night. To 
 be in the home of the leader of the women 
 radicals was dangerous. If discovered, we 
 would be suspected of spreading underground 
 propaganda. All night the storm raged outside. 
 At daylight the door bell rang. My heart beat 
 violently . Surely it was the police. But it was 
 only a messenger. Early in the morning we 
 made a hasty departure. Clara Zetkin was up 
 before us. The work of the radicals has doubled 
 since Liebknecht's imprisonment. There are few 
 now to carry it on. Mehring, the editor of their 
 paper, has been imprisoned. A letter of his to 
 Liebknecht's lawyer was opened. In it he 
 showed knowledge of the Liebknecht demonstra- 
 tion before it occurred. Mehring is a man of 
 seventy-three and a scholar, but this was enough 
 to condemn him to penal servitude. 
 
 Clara Zetkin walked with us toward Stutt- 
 228 
 
THE ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 
 
 gart, her great mastiff by her side. We went 
 back through the same lonely wood. Occasion- 
 ally we heard footsteps. Once we saw a man 
 in among the trees. Perhaps he was a spy. As 
 we started down into the valley Clara Zetkin's 
 lonely figure stood out above us on the hill. It 
 was a frail figure worn with struggle but in the 
 eyes burned the passion of a martyr. Such a 
 spirit cannot be beaten. 
 
 As soon as we reached Stuttgart my friend 
 and I went to the station. We took the first 
 train to Munich. When we arrived we saun- 
 tered leisurely into our hotel. We acted as if 
 we had never been away, but our night's absence 
 was known. The hotel employees looked at us 
 coldly. I had planned to leave for Switzerland 
 the following morning. My American passport 
 included that country. But it is n't easy to get 
 out of Germany. At least four days before de- 
 parture you must go to the police, deliver up 
 your passport, and be finger-printed. This 
 identification, three portraits, and a personal 
 description are sent to the frontier. Then 
 twenty-four hours before leaving you return to 
 the police, get your passport, and have it vised. 
 This compels residence for four days in one spot 
 
 229 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 and I had been in Stuttgart for a night without 
 a passport. 
 
 After we reached Munich my friend and I 
 went to the police. It was an exciting moment. 
 Had my adventure come to official ears? Evi- 
 dently not, for my papers were promptly de- 
 livered. The Bavarian police are friendly, but 
 the military authorities are not. They are Prus- 
 sian. I had to go to the latter about my letters 
 and manuscript. During our journalist tour we 
 had been given material on every phase of Ger- 
 man organization. No exj)ense had been spared 
 to equip us with the right kind of news for 
 America. This literature I took to the military 
 authorities. The civil and military groups are 
 not in harmony. Their difference is that of Von 
 Hollweg and Von Tirpitz. 
 
 " This material,'' I explained, " has been given 
 me by the Berlin authorities. I should be glad 
 to take it to Switzerland and ship it to America." 
 
 The officer shook his head. " It can't go," was 
 his terse reply. 
 
 " But," I protested, " the Berlin officials spent 
 a lot of money to get the material and they said 
 it should go if it had to be sent by the Deutsch- 
 land." 
 
 230 
 
THE ESCAPE FEOM GERMANY 
 
 " It does n't make any difference what they 
 said," was the rejoinder. il These papers sha'n't 
 leave the country." 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. It was silly to let me 
 travel about and yet forbid German propaganda 
 to pass. In the end, a few picture post-cards of 
 Bismarck and Kaiser " Denkmals," and some 
 pamphlets on German Red Cross work were 
 done up in a sealed packet for transportation. 
 The remaining material had to be left in Ger- 
 many. This experience taught me it was useless 
 to carry any news notes openly. But how smug- 
 gle them through? I had not spent a voluntary 
 week in prison in vain. I ripped open the lining 
 of my dress suit case and laid in my papers. 
 Then I bought glue and stuck the lining together. 
 
 The next morning I boarded the" train for the 
 frontier. My friend from Berlin went with me. 
 As we sped through the country I took my last 
 glimpses of Germany. The land was desolate. 
 No wagons or autos on the country roads, only 
 now and then a lonely woman in a big field. One 
 Sunday we had made an expedition from Mu- 
 nich into the mountains. We visited a fashion- 
 able summer resort. Rich people were still oc- 
 cupying the hotels. There was more comfort 
 
 231 
 
SHOKT RATIONS 
 
 liere than I had found anywhere. We had a 
 cup of real coffee and cafe kuclien that could 
 be eaten. But in a near-by village we found the 
 people hungry. In one cottage was a woman 
 who had given six sons to the war. She and 
 her three grandchildren hadn't enough to eat. 
 They were living on potatoes and a tea substi- 
 tute. She drew a small pension from the im- 
 perial authorities. This used to be augmented 
 by a municipal fund. But the town now had 
 no money for pensions. This grandmother was 
 trying to live on six dollars a month. 
 
 As our train sped past little villages I won- 
 dered how many families were pensionless. In 
 our railway carriage was a soldier home on a 
 three weeks' leave. He was eager to talk. He 
 wanted diversion. He was a man of means; 
 about forty years of age, and extremely well 
 educated. For fifteen months he had been at the 
 front. 
 
 " I will never go back," was his ultimatum. 
 " I '11 make myself ill or do some injury to my- 
 self, if they try to send me." 
 
 " Was it so terrible? " we asked. 
 
 "Worse than any civilian can realize. I re- 
 fused to go as an officer, but took the position 
 
 232 
 
THE ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 
 
 of sergeant. I wanted to get into the war and 
 see what it was like. The common soldiers 
 weren't considered any more than a pack of 
 animals. They were killed off like flies. I 'm 
 not a Social Democrat. I have never thought 
 much of the working people, but I knew those 
 men. They each had a mother, a wife, or a sweet- 
 heart, and they were mowed down like things." 
 
 We were silent a moment. Then we asked, 
 " Do you think the men at the front learn pa- 
 triotism? " 
 
 He smiled a quizzical smile. " Patriotism ! 
 Yes, we learn a real patriotism. That it does n't 
 make any difference where you live as long as 
 there isn't war." He paused a moment and 
 then continued : " Germany won't be fit to live 
 in after the war. The hardships will be fright- 
 ful. I 've transferred all my property to Swit- 
 zerland. I will go there the first moment I can. 
 Germany has a bill ready which she will pass 
 as soon as peace comes. It will prevent Ger- 
 mans emigrating. Every one will be needed to 
 bring back prosperity, but I mean to get out 
 somehow." 
 
 The soldier left before we reached our desti- 
 nation. I was glad we were alone. My jour- 
 
 233 
 
SHOBT RATIONS 
 
 nalist notes had begun to worry me. I examined 
 my dress suit case. The German glue was a 
 failure. The lining was loose except for one 
 spot. Concealed beneath that was a newspaper 
 clipping, telling of the Munich peace meeting. 
 Here the lining held, because I had moistened 
 and used the dried American glue. I decided 
 to leave the clipping but removed my pencil notes. 
 After much thought I copied these on tissue 
 paper. Then I ripped open the heavy cloth 
 straps of my English raincoat. I moistened the 
 tissue paper, laid it inside the straps and sewed 
 them together. It was a wonderful hiding 
 place. You couldn't feel a thing, even though 
 you squeezed the cloth between your fingers. 
 
 By this time we were nearing the frontier. I 
 began to be very nervous. From the train we 
 went into a little waiting-room. There were 
 about twenty other travelers. My friend was 
 still with me. At last my name was called. I 
 wrung my friend's hand. Was it to be my last 
 glimpse? It tore my heart to leave her to her 
 desolate country. In a minute I was sitting in 
 a tiny room before a white sheet. There were 
 two holes in the sheet. Eyes were looking out 
 at me through those holes. It was uncanny. I 
 
 234 
 
THE ESCAPE FKOM GERMANY 
 
 was as shivery as when we played Blue Beard 
 as children. Questions were asked me. But all 
 the German I had learned vanished. I sat quite 
 still and looked outwardly calm, but inwardly 
 my heart went like a trip hammer. An inter- 
 preter was summoned. My papers were exam- 
 ined. The interpreter was scornful. He made 
 some sarcastic remarks but did not question me. 
 Then I was led into another room. There was 
 my luggage. It was spread out on a long bench. 
 I saw I was not to get out of Germany as easily 
 as I had got in. My two valises and carry-all, 
 all the baggage I had, were opened. Every item 
 was examined. Each stocking turned inside 
 out. Every scrap of underwear held up to the 
 light and each seam examined. It was very dis- 
 concerting. The soldiers' eyes went from me 
 to my clothes. It isn't easy to act innocent. 
 Finally the suitcases were emptied. Then it 
 was their turn to be examined. Thank God I 
 had removed my notes. The soldiers' fingers 
 went over every speck of the lining. I held my 
 breath. But the newspaper clipping couldn't 
 be felt. The loosened lining concealed no se- 
 crets. Its dangling condition was disarming. 
 I swallowed thankfully as the things were put 
 
 235 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 back. My raincoat was shaken out, that was 
 all. But the officers were evidently surprised 
 that they had unearthed no secrets. They were 
 still not friendly. I asked if I might go, but 
 they shook their heads. Just then a whistle 
 blew. The little boat that was to take me across 
 Lake Constance to Switzerland was leaving. 
 
 Then the door opened and my friend was 
 shown in. I was so glad to see her, I forgot my 
 disappointment at being detained. Hurriedly 
 she explained. " The officer says he has a ' de- 
 nunciation ' against you. He says they have 
 been all through your things and found noth- 
 ing. That is in your favor, but they are n't go- 
 ing to let you across the frontier to-night. You 
 will have to stay at a hotel in the town." 
 
 It was evident some spy had told tales. My 
 friend and I exchanged glances but said noth- 
 ing. An officer was standing guard with an at- 
 tentive ear. I decided to leave my luggage with 
 the officials. Those newspaper clippings made it 
 risky, but it looked well. I took my toilet ar- 
 ticles and left with my friend. We found an 
 attractive hotel facing the lake. The town of 
 Lindau has considerable charm. It does not 
 seem to be fortified. There are no visible 
 
 236 
 
THE ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 
 
 trenches. It looks as though the people of Swit- 
 zerland could come straight into Germany across 
 Lake Constance. But Lindau was full of sol- 
 diers and spies. When my friend and I were 
 safely in a hotel, she started to talk about the 
 concealed papers. But I motioned for silence 
 and pointed to a door leading into an adjoin- 
 ing room. There was a big crack and a key- 
 hole, any one hiding on the other side could see 
 and hear everything. My friend understood. 
 By common consent we confined our conversation 
 to clothes, weddings, and feminine topics. 
 
 Later that evening we went out for a walk. 
 Then in whispers we discussed the " denuncia- 
 tion." My friend was indignant. " You have n't 
 done a speck of harm ; you 're an American, and 
 have a right to go anywhere. Besides you've 
 been feeding German mothers and babies. I told 
 the officer you had and that he had no right to 
 treat you so." 
 
 But I did not agree with my friend. It was 
 war and I was a journalist. Besides I had made 
 an unreported visit to Stuttgart. True I had 
 not been to the front and I knew no military 
 secrets. But I had my journalist notes. If 
 discovered they would not be tolerated and my 
 
 237 
 
SHOET RATIONS 
 
 deception would have brought temporary im- 
 prisonment. It was not easy to sleep that night. 
 But fear breeds craftiness. As I undressed I 
 did it for the benefit of the keyhole. I carefully 
 shook out each garment and cast it carelessly 
 aside. In the bathroom were two bungholes. 
 Through them it was easy for any one on the 
 outside to see what was going on within. I kept 
 these holes in my mind throughout my toilet. 
 
 Next morning we were up early. A boat for 
 Switzerland left shortly after eight. I think it 
 was my cheerfulness and unconcern won the day. 
 The officer told my friend I had been seen in a 
 railway carriage when I was supposed to be in 
 Munich. " But," he added, " the spies half the 
 time don't know what they are about." The 
 officers had grown friendly. They had come to 
 the conclusion I w T as harmless. This treatment 
 made my conscience prick as their suspicions of 
 the night before hadn't. I was not personally 
 examined nor was my luggage re-examined, but 
 when I had once passed the roped-off inclosure, 
 I was not allowed to speak to my friend. I 
 stood on the boat's deck and she on the shore. 
 
 Now that I was off, I hated to go. As the 
 boat pulled out my friend still stood there. As 
 
 238 
 
THE ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 
 
 long as I could see her her hand was waving a 
 last farewell. During my stay in Germany, she 
 had understood, protected, and cared for me. 
 She loved her country as few do. So much that 
 she could see its faults. She wanted the world 
 to know the truth. She wanted the help of all 
 mankind in the struggle for democracy. To 
 leave her seemed like deserting the ship. Yet 
 as the boat drew close to the land on the other 
 side a flood of joy seized me. I grew tremen- 
 dously excited. I had not realized how exiled I 
 had felt. One wireless message three weeks old 
 had been my only connection with America. 
 
 It was a deserted village at which we landed. 
 There were few people about, no soldiers, and 
 no entrenchment. There seemed to be no bar- 
 riers against Germany. And the blight of Ger- 
 many seemed to have extended to this spot. It 
 was so still. But had it? A thought came to 
 me — bread, butter, coffee. I made for the near- 
 est restaurant. For a solid hour, I consumed 
 bread, butter, coffee, cream, and sugar. I had 
 no other desire in life. I hadn't known how I 
 missed these things. I put great chunks of but- 
 ter on my bread and ate it like candy. It was 
 exactly like getting oiled up. My tense nerves 
 
SHORT EATIONS 
 
 began to relax. In a short time iny train ar- 
 rived. Then as it sped on through the country 
 I saw I was in a new world. On the country 
 road were autos. I was fascinated by their new- 
 ness and speed. At the stations were crowds 
 of men, young men in business clothes. I 
 could n't take my eyes off them and the milk 
 cans. How Germany transports the little milk 
 she has, I don't know, for I realized in traveling 
 I had n't seen a milk can. The world suddenly 
 seemed flooded with men and milk cans. Pres- 
 ently I began to notice my fellow passengers, 
 and I saw they also looked strange. They had 
 fat hands and great fat figures. To my unac- 
 customed eye they looked enormously big. Then 
 they laughed and talked. Their eyes were bright 
 and they had rosy cheeks. 
 
 In the dining car we had a huge meal, six 
 courses, two kinds of meat, and a salad reeking 
 with oil. But suddenly something within me re- 
 coiled. I found I could n't swallow. It was 
 like coming from a funeral into a land of laugh- 
 ter. It all seemed wrong. No one was thinking 
 of the dead. I wanted to cry out to these fat, 
 complacent, jolly people: "How can you? 
 Don't you understand? People are suffering. 
 
 240 
 
THE ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 
 
 A nation is dying. What right have you to be 
 thoughtless? Please respect the dead." I 
 pushed back my plate. I couldn't eat. For a 
 long time I sat thinking. But as the hours wore 
 on I noticed another great change had taken 
 place. When I entered the train every one was 
 talking German. It was as it had been in Ger- 
 many. But now my ear caught French. A 
 lump came in my throat. It was so good to hear 
 a language I understood. We had passed from 
 German Switzerland into French. At Berne 
 there had been a great exodus and influx. The 
 new arrivals were a different type. The few 
 who remained in the car changed their language. 
 We had passed from Germany into France. A 
 real frontier had been crossed. But no one came 
 to examine my luggage or me. 
 
 What a topsy-turvy world it was. German 
 Switzerland is completely German, French 
 Switzerland equally French, and Italian Swit- 
 zerland Italian. An imaginary line holds them 
 together. If Switzerland went to war it would 
 probably fly into its component parts. So great 
 is the division in sentiment. In Berne the peo- 
 ple were hotly for Germany. In Geneva pas- 
 sionately for France. 
 
 241 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 I traveled through to Geneva. It was good 
 to be In a land where I could talk freely. I en- 
 joyed the real coffee, the rich food, the crowded 
 cafes. For a day it was like a release from 
 prison. Then I discovered life in Switzerland 
 was distressing. The land is deluged with 
 spies, both French and German. I had two 
 groups to watch me. The Germans were most 
 active. Wherever I went some man followed me. 
 All Switzerland is a hotbed of plots and counter- 
 plots. People do not trust one another. How 
 can they? One group fights for Germany, the 
 other for France. And Switzerland is a land of 
 tragedies. They hit the eye wherever one walks. 
 The country is inhabited by trembling, old peo- 
 ple, in deep mourning. Their sons are all dead. 
 They have come here to forget. These sorrow- 
 ing aged ones bring tiny grandchildren. The 
 land swarms with curly-haired, dancing-eyed, 
 pink and white perfections in babyhood. They 
 are the prize children the belligerent nations are 
 trying to save. Beside this mixture of old and 
 young, there is the awful human wreckage of 
 war. Soldiers who have gone crazy and walk 
 with shuffling feet and hanging mouths, tuber- 
 cular warriors, gasping and white, and men who 
 
 242 
 
THE ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 
 
 are only stumps riding about in wheel chairs. 
 
 All that is best and worst in mankind is here 
 in evidence. At one end the Swiss Red Cross 
 labors day and night, nursing wounded soldiers, 
 protecting war prisoners, and giving trained 
 nurses from all the belligerent countries a two 
 weeks' vacation in the best hotels free. At the 
 other end the greedy, crafty merchants, fatten 
 on wine and good food and busily haul in money 
 made from war's necessities. German mer- 
 chants and French merchants live side by side 
 in the same hotel, talking not of the war, for- 
 getting all differences, to barter and trade and 
 reap from their bleeding lands. 
 
 Poor Switzerland! It suffers indeed. It is 
 gradually being squeezed. Its lands are being 
 stripped. Sugar is low. There are no longer 
 sugar bowls. Each person is served only with 
 a portion — two lumps. Most of the bread is 
 no longer white. The country is bled of its silk 
 and wool. The beautiful woven sweaters of 
 former days are scarce. They have all been 
 shipped to France. Switzerland is no haven of 
 rest. I wanted to get away as quickly as possi- 
 ble. But I did not want to go back to Germany. 
 My escapade in Stuttgart made it dangerous. 
 
 243 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 My nerves had had all they could stand. But 
 Americans are not permitted to travel from bel- 
 ligerent country to belligerent country. I de- 
 cided to throw myself on the mercy of the British 
 Embassy and beg for a pass through France. 
 
 244 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 A FLYING TRIP THROUGH FRANCE AND ENGLAND 
 
 THE American embassy in Switzerland was 
 adamant. " There 's no use seeing the am- 
 bassador," said an important young secretary. 
 " I tell you, you 've got to go back through Ger- 
 many." 
 
 " But," I protested, " there 's a denunciation 
 against me in Germany. It's dangerous. If 
 the British embassy gives consent, why can't I 
 go to England? " 
 
 " It does n't make any difference what the Brit- 
 ish embassy says," retorted the autocratic sec- 
 retary. " As soon as you reach the French fron- 
 tier you '11 be arrested. If you are, we will have 
 nothing to do with you. No American can travel 
 from one belligerent country to another." 
 
 I was disheartened. Life looked black, but 
 I was not going to give in. I went to the post- 
 office and collected my mail. I found the " New 
 York Tribune" credentials and a letter from Mr. 
 
 245 
 
SHOKT RATIONS 
 
 Massingham, the editor of the English " Na- 
 tion," for whom I had done some writing. These 
 letters forwarded to Switzerland at my request 
 gave me a pro-ally appearance. I destroyed the 
 " Chicago Tribune " credentials which had car- 
 ried me through Germany. Then I sought the 
 British embassy. There was a fine young cap- 
 tain at the head of the passport department. He 
 was at once deeply interested. A woman who 
 had been through Germany was a curiosity. I 
 explained my predicament. 
 
 " I simply can't go home that way," I said ap- 
 pealingly. " The American embassy won't help 
 me, and, they say, you have n't any power ; that 
 I '11 be arrested as soon as I reach France." 
 
 This challenge brought a quick response. The 
 young captain straightened up, and said reas- 
 suringly, " Don't you worry, I '11 see you 
 through." 
 
 My heart grew light. Soon the captain and 
 I were chatting gaily. I found he had an Ameri- 
 can wife. We discovered mutual friends in 
 England and America. He was able to place me 
 from babyhood. " I should like awfully," he 
 said, "to talk about Germany. Couldn't you 
 dine with me? " 
 
 246 
 
THROUGH FRANCE AND ENGLAND 
 
 I was about to accept when I remembered the 
 German spies. I explained the situation. 
 " Spies follow me everywhere, and if I have 
 to go back to Germany and I 've been seen dining 
 with the British embassy, what do you think 
 would happen to me? " 
 
 He laughingly agreed it wouldn't do. But 
 after a few minutes he returned to the dinner 
 invitation. " Suppose," he said, " you dine with 
 me and we elude the spies. I '11 take a taxi and 
 be on a given street corner at a given hour, and 
 you come along and take the taxi." 
 
 The humor of the situation appealed to me, 
 and I agreed. That night at seven I slipped 
 quietly out of my hotel and down a deserted 
 street. On the street corner stood a taxi. I 
 opened the door and popped in. It was the 
 right one. We had a great laugh. We felt we 
 were acting the leading roles in a new movie. 
 We had a dinner at a country club and I got my 
 first glimpse of the reverse side of the war. This 
 young Englishman had a real point of view. 
 Women and soldiers see the war straight. They 
 know its cost. It 's the civilians at home that 
 are bitter and relentless. 
 
 We talked as much of prisons as of war. We 
 247 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 tied the two together. " There are two ways of 
 treating Germany," I said. " It 's the difference 
 between the old prison system and the new. The 
 old method of punishment does n't work. Beat a 
 convict and you fill him with rage and don't re- 
 form him, hut give the men behind the bars a 
 square deal, be big and fair and generous, and 
 you get real reformation. Personally, I wish 
 the Allies had n't thrown bombs on cities. In 
 Baden Baden eighty women and children were 
 killed." 
 
 The captain's brow puckered. " It was a mis- 
 take," he agreed. " We ought n't to have copied 
 Germany. Many of us voted against it, but the 
 measure carried." 
 
 " I think," I continued, " the radicals in Ger- 
 many could be of use. Why not appeal to them? 
 Drop literature instead of bombs on the trenches. 
 Tell the German people what you 're after." 
 
 « We 've thought of that," he replied, and then 
 
 inquired, " Were you in Berlin on August ? 
 
 Aeroplanes flew over the city that day with liter- 
 ature." 
 
 I remembered the date perfectly. I had been 
 on the street all day, but I 'd seen and heard 
 nothing. I said so. The captain was disap- 
 
 248 
 
THROUGH FRANCE AND ENGLAND 
 
 pointed. " I was afraid there was a hitch," he 
 said. 
 
 The captain was well posted about Germany. 
 He knew of the food shortage. He watched for 
 signs of collapse. One of his first questions was, 
 " Is the Zoo in Berlin still open? " This Eng- 
 lish officer had no thought of peace. Germany 
 must first be defeated. But he was not vindic- 
 tive. He did not want punishment. It was in- 
 teresting to watch the captain study me. Ger- 
 many searched my luggage, but he searched my 
 mind. I did not try to deceive him. He saw. I 
 wanted peace, but not at the expense of democ- 
 racy. He trusted me. When we parted I had 
 his promise of assistance. 
 
 In three days came a note asking me to call. 
 He delivered over my passport. On it was 
 written this sentence : " Seen at the British Lega- 
 tion at Berne, September 22nd, 1916. Miss Doty 
 is personally known to me — Good for London." 
 
 In addition I was given a letter in French for 
 use in France. 
 
 That night I took the train for Paris. Before 
 leaving I destroyed all but my business letters. 
 A precious note from Remain Rolland went into 
 the fire. I dared not carry it. I was told a 
 
 249 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 woman who traveled with his book " Above the 
 Battle," was arrested as a suspect. The famous 
 novelist is an exile in Switzerland. I for- 
 warded him an invitation from the Woman's 
 Peace Party to lecture in America. In reply he 
 wrote, " My duty lies in Europe. When I speak 
 it must be to France." But had he felt otherwise 
 he could not have come to America. France 
 would not give him a passport. 
 
 I descended from the train at the French fron- 
 tier with anxiety. 
 
 Had the captain the power to protect me? It 
 was pitch dark. Only the station platform and 
 a row of soldiers were visible. We were shown 
 into a big examining room. The luggage came 
 first. That was quickly disposed of. My papers 
 had n't yet been seen. But as I turned from 
 my baggage a soldier stepped up and took my 
 passport. It was covered with fat official Ger- 
 man seals. He was staggered. He hurried me 
 into the next room. At once I became "the 
 lady from Germany." For two hours I was 
 passed from official to official. Endlessly I re- 
 peated the story of my life. My legal training 
 was useful. I always told the same story. The 
 French soldiers, like the English captain, 
 
 250 
 
THROUGH FRANCE AND ENGLAND 
 
 searched my mind. When they had finished I 
 was turned over to a woman. She conducted me 
 to a large closet and ordered me to undress. I 
 got as far as the first layer when the woman said 
 "that will do." The ordeal was over and I 
 boarded my train. 
 
 For three hours the train had patiently waited 
 its passengers. I was very tired, and crept 
 quickly into my berth. But in the midst of 
 dreams of Paris, there came loud thumps at the 
 stateroom door. In a moment it was flung open 
 and in walked the French police. I sat up in 
 bed and greeted my visitors sleepily. Soon they 
 had me launched on another life history. The 
 chief officer was suspicious. " How long," he 
 said, " have you known Captain X ? When did 
 you see him? " I dodged his questions and re- 
 plied carelessly : " Captain X ! Oh, I know him 
 well. He has an American wife. We dined to- 
 gether." That settled it. Dining with the Brit- 
 ish Legation gives one a standing. With profuse 
 apologies the police withdrew. Again I settled 
 down ; when I opened my eyes it was to hear the 
 porter say, " Paris in half an hour." 
 
 Queer little ecstasies of delight thrilled me. 
 
 Was it because of a great great-grandfather who 
 
 251 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 was French. I think not. France's magic lies 
 not in ancestors but in its democracy — its un- 
 derstanding — one fits. As I left the train, the 
 station was packed with people. In a moment I 
 was lost in the crowd. Spies were useless. The 
 whole city teemed with life. It is more active 
 than a year ago. More happens in five minutes 
 than in a whole month in Berlin. I knew at a 
 glance that Germany's days were numbered. I 
 went to a little sidewalk cafe for breakfast. 
 Streams of people passed. Girls on their way to 
 business, crippled soldiers, rushing ambulances, 
 flying taxis, delivery wagons, English officers 
 with a piquant French girl clinging to an arm. 
 The life was as rushing as it is at Broadway and 
 Forty-second Street. After Germany, it looked 
 helter-skelter and unorganized, but things got 
 done. 
 
 Paris is to Berlin, as home is to an institution. 
 It has an unconventional warmth. You don't 
 hear the wheels go round. Tired soldiers from 
 the front poured into the station and made the 
 station home. They sank down in any conven- 
 ient spot. In one corner I saw a foot-sore soldier 
 take off shoes and stockings and put on fresh 
 ones; in another a group of soldiers sat on the 
 
 252 
 
THROUGH FRANCE AND ENGLAND 
 
 floor with their backs to the wall and eat break- 
 fast from knapsacks chatting madly. I wanted 
 to stay in Paris, but I 'd promised the Captain 
 I would n't. He feared my German marked pass- 
 port would get me in trouble with ignorant un- 
 der-officials. After breakfast, I tried to get a res- 
 ervation for London. It was Saturday. There 
 was none to be had until Sunday. That gave me 
 two days in Paris. I spent them in the shops 
 and on the boulevards. Paris thrives. Every 
 one is busy. There are few signs to rent. The 
 shops are gay with the latest fashions. But 
 much of the idealism of a year ago has vanished. 
 France begins to realize she has Germany by the 
 throat. The soldiers jostle one on the street. 
 They walk with the air of conquerors, they grow 
 brutal. And the boulevards are filled with 
 women of the street. There are other signs that 
 are distressing. France copies Germany. She 
 grows militaristic. She refuses passports to 
 men like Romain Rolland. With the loss of 
 freedom goes much idealism. I began to fear for 
 France. The victory of the Marne was won 
 not by a relentless military system, but by ideal- 
 ism. The people believed in their cause and 
 fought like one man. Joan d'Arcs and Abra- 
 
 253 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 ham Lincolns spring from the people. They 
 emerge where there is freedom. Great lead- 
 ers are needed. To close France in, suppress 
 the news, appoint dictators, employ militaristic 
 methods, will be fatal. The people of France 
 and England prosper only under democracy. 
 
 It is the people of these two kingdoms that 
 have kept them ahead of Germany internally. 
 
 To go from Germany to France is like going 
 from a desert island to a land of plenty. The 
 Allies have all the resources. They have raw 
 material, workers — 70,000 Chinamen, for in- 
 stance — food and munition. Each day Ger- 
 many's supply of these diminishes. But as long 
 as Germany has a speck of food or a man to 
 fight she will have military strength. You can't 
 beat Germany at her own game. You can't beat 
 back over twenty miles of trenches without a 
 struggle that will bankrupt the world. But 
 there are other ways of winning. The methods 
 of free people. The methods of the new prison 
 system. Ways that seek not punishment but 
 justice. Ways that, conscious of strength, offer 
 justice. 
 
 On Sunday I took the train for Havre. I was 
 careful to show only the Berne vise and said I 
 
 254 
 
THKOUGH FRANCE AND ENGLAND 
 
 was going straight through. I was passed with- 
 out comment. As I gazed from the car window 
 I saw the country teemed with activity. Smoke 
 poured from factories. At one point we came 
 to a military center. Here gigantic new build- 
 ings were in progress and railroad tracks were 
 being laid in every direction. Thousands of cars 
 stood on sidings. It looked as though France 
 and England had a plant that could supply the 
 world. By contrast Germany was pitiful. In 
 the compartment with me was an attractive 
 French girl. She had dancing eyes, and wore a 
 very short skirt, and carried a gaily colored hat- 
 box nearly as big as herself. All the soldiers 
 were attentive. She was radiant. The lack of 
 young men in Paris made life dull. She was off 
 for London. I found we shared the same state- 
 room on the channel steamer. As we drew into 
 Havre, we heard bad news. A German subma- 
 rine had been sighted and the London boat would 
 not leave that night. Havre is the seat of the 
 Belgium Government and is crowded with Bel- 
 gian and English soldiers. The chances for ac- 
 commodations were small. There were no por- 
 ters and no carriages at the station. An old 
 postman offered me his services. He swung me 
 
 255 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 on to the high front seat of the post wagon and 
 piled my bags on the wagon's roof. Then we 
 tore down the street at a mad pace to the best 
 hotel. It was a wild race for rooms. The little 
 French girl with the aid of several cavaliers was 
 ahead of me, but I came next. I secured the 
 last room to be had. It cost two dollars and 
 was at the top of the hotel, six flights and no 
 elevator. But I was thankful for a bed. Next 
 day the little French girl clung to me. She was 
 pursued by invitations and I acted as chaperon. 
 Two English business men invited us to lunch. 
 We went to a little restaurant high up on the 
 cliff. The cliff is covered with tents and wooden 
 buildings. These are the Belgium military head- 
 quarters. At the water's edge below the cliff lie 
 the attractive houses used by the Belgium Gov- 
 ernment staff. But Havre itself is unattractive. 
 English Tommies lounge about the place. They 
 fill the cafes and drink unduly. They have 
 robbed Havre of its Parisian lightness. It has 
 grown coarse and dirty. The place is under 
 English control. The little French girl said the 
 English were not popular here. Our English 
 merchants were stodgy. They had the civilian 
 view of war. They believed in corporal punish- 
 
 256 
 
THROUGH FRANCE AND ENGLAND 
 
 ment for school children, and in corporal punish- 
 ment for Germany. 
 
 We left them as soon as possible. At the 
 hotel we met a couple of young English army 
 officers. They were both under twenty-five. 
 They were back from the front for a few days. 
 They came from the wealthy and aristocratic 
 class in England. They were frankly delighted 
 to be with us. " We 've wondered/' they said, 
 "whether we should ever again go to teas and 
 dances and be just frivolous."' They invited 
 us to tea. We went to the most pretentious tea- 
 room in town. They kept me talking about Ger- 
 many. They could n't hear enough. They grew 
 very confidential. " It 's all very well," said one, 
 and the other agreed, " for Lloyd George to sit 
 home and talk about knockout blows and plan 
 away our lives, but I tell you when we 're in the 
 trenches it 's peace for us at any price, when we 
 get back as far as here we think we '11 fight a 
 little longer and when we get to England we talk 
 the way Asquith does." 
 
 " We 're hoping," added the other, " that the 
 death of Asquith's son will do much to hasten 
 the end of war." 
 
 " There are other ways of winning besides just 
 257 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 killing," I suggested. " You might start a revo- 
 lution in Germany. If the Allies would officially 
 state fair peace terms and have these translated 
 into German and dropped by aeroplanes in all the 
 German trenches, things would happen. The 
 Germans suffer horribly. If you made the people 
 realize you were n't out for conquest, they 'd quit 
 fighting you and go for their own Government." 
 
 The young officers were silent for a moment, 
 then they burst out with, " That 's a great idea. 
 It would mean setting the Germans to killing 
 each other instead of us." 
 
 I had to laugh, but perhaps their interpreta- 
 tion was not far from the truth. " Anyway," I 
 added, " it could n't do any harm to try the plan." 
 
 These young officers were refreshing. They 
 were big and strong and splendid, England's best. 
 They were fighters, but they loathed war. They 
 wanted justice not punishment. That night we 
 boarded the channel steamer. The little French 
 girl supervised my luggage while I told my life 
 history to English officers. It was two hours 
 and a half before I was released. The steamer 
 was frightfully hot. Every porthole was fas- 
 tened down. This was to prevent a ray of light 
 escaping. The decks were in total darkness. 
 
 258 
 
THROUGH FRANCE AND ENGLAND 
 
 The boat crept out into black silent night. The 
 stateroom was too stuffy for sleep. The little 
 French girl and I spent the night on deck. There 
 was n't a sound except the swish of the water as 
 our dark boat dashed through the still night. I 
 was more afrad of capture than bombs. What 
 would the Germans do to me if our boat was 
 taken and we made prisoners? 
 
 The stewardess told me a harrowing story. 
 Not long before a German woman had crossed 
 on a channel steamer, she was a spy. The Eng- 
 lish discovered her nationality. They faced her 
 with facts. They promised if she confessed to 
 send her back. She did confess. Next morning, 
 she was shipped to France. England shifted the 
 burden. She did not want to kill a woman. 
 But she knew France would. Twenty-four hours 
 later the woman was shot on French soil. In 
 Germany I had spoken of Edith Cavell. I said 
 it was a mistake. Many Germans agreed, but 
 then they shrugged their shoulders and said the 
 Allies are n't much better. I knew now why. I 
 fell to wondering about myself. I suppose Mili- 
 tary Junkers in both England and Germany, be- 
 cause I had traveled about, might consider me a 
 spy. It was not a pleasant thought. I was glad 
 
 259 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 I was on my way to America. We reached 
 Southampton in the early morning. Without 
 breakfast and without sleep, it was hard to be 
 cheerful. But I did my best with my life story. 
 My passport was taken, and I was told as soon 
 as I reached London to go to Scotland Yard for 
 it. 
 
 On the train in our compartment was a very 
 tired Englishman and Englishwoman. He had 
 been driving an ambulance at the front, she nurs- 
 ing the wounded. The little French girl was 
 a delight to them. She robbed life of horror. 
 The Englishman's feet were very long ; they came 
 dangerously near the gay hat-box. " You must 
 be careful of our Paris hat," I said, smiling first 
 at him and then at the attractive owner. He 
 drew his feet in solicitously and said earnestly, 
 " I 'd hurl myself out of the window before I 'd 
 hurt that hat." Soldiers and women keep their 
 balance. Suffering makes them generous. It 's 
 the civilians at home that may bring havoc. 
 
 London was quieter than a year ago. The 
 gaudy enlistment posters have vanished, the bands 
 no longer play. The people have settled into 
 harness. At night the streets are pitchy black. 
 One cannot see the curbstone, one has to be led 
 
 260 
 
THROUGH FRANCE AND ENGLAND 
 
 by an expert. Between fog and the short winter 
 days, London is dreary. The streets are crowded 
 and life goes on as usual, but a spirit of relent- 
 less Puritanism has reawakened in the land. 
 The English people do not know that German} 7 
 suffers. They believe she stores up goods to 
 destroy them commercially after the war. The 
 English fear this and want Germany smashed. 
 They believe in punishment. They still beat 
 their public school boys as formerly they beat 
 their convicts and their soldiers. Germany must 
 be licked like a school child. This makes the 
 people hard. Not all, of course. The radicals 
 see the danger. They know if England succeeds 
 it will react on England. She will become a 
 bully and illiberal. Slowly England is divid- 
 ing into two camps. Those who want to fight 
 only for the freedom and reinstatement of small 
 nations, and those who want in addition to smash 
 the enemy. The latter class predominate in both 
 England and France. The militarists get ever 
 a tighter hold. While Germany is opening up 
 and her people begin to talk, slowly England and 
 France close in, shut out liberty, and grow re- 
 lentless. 
 
 I stayed only ten days in England. London 
 261 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 grows uninteresting. It has few meetings, no 
 street orators, and little discussion. Its social 
 work ceases. It is becoming what Germany was 
 a year ago. I talked little while in England. 
 My pass had been given me by the military au- 
 thorities and I felt I had no right to. But on 
 the ocean homeward bound my thoughts run riot. 
 I had seen both sides. I had no doubt about 
 the outcome. Germany would eventually be 
 beaten. Her resources were becoming exhausted. 
 But a prolonged struggle might mean bank- 
 ruptcy, spiritual and physical, for the Allies. 
 Was there a way out? Again the new prison 
 system rushed upon me. Treating convicts 
 kindly and really reforming them, did not mean 
 opening the gates and letting them run away. 
 Neither did offering Germany just terms of 
 peace and appealing to the best that was in her 
 mean letting Prussianism overrun the world. 
 Suddenly I closed my eyes and dreamed a dream. 
 I saw our little grandchildren fifty years hence 
 in school bending over history books and this 
 is what they read. 
 
 " In 1917 a great change in thought came over 
 the earth. It revolutionized history. No other 
 event since the freeing of the slaves was of such 
 
 262 
 
THKOUGH FKANCE AND ENGLAND 
 
 importance. The spirit of Social Service which 
 had crept into people permeated the nations and 
 guided their action. And in the spiritual regen- 
 eration America led the way. From her came 
 the doctrine : ' We must fight for justice but 
 never to conquer or punish. " Let him who is 
 without sin among you cast the first stone." 
 We are not our brother's keeper but our brother's 
 helper. Our own hands have not always been 
 clean. We have fattened on the Great War. 
 We wish to make reparation. We ask to be al- 
 lowed to aid with the war indemnities. We wish 
 to contribute a billion dollars to the reestablish- 
 ment of Belgium.' 
 
 " It was this spirit in America," continued the 
 history, " that changed the whole trend of events. 
 When peace negotiations came, there was not, as 
 formerly, secret diplomatic juggling to see which 
 nation could grab the most. Peace terms were 
 stated openly. 
 
 " The reestablishment of small nations was in- 
 sisted on, and in cases of dispute a plebiscite 
 vote decided the nationality of the disputed ter- 
 ritory. An endeavor was made to give to the ut- 
 termost, instead of take to the uttermost. 
 
 " So the foundations of the permanent peace 
 263 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 we enjoy to-day were laid. To our grandfathers 
 belong the glory of establishing the rule, ' What 
 can I give, not what can I grab.' " 
 
 Was it a dream? I woke with a start. I was 
 lying in a steamer chair and we were drawing 
 into New York harbor. 
 
 Already I felt the breath of the great city in 
 my nostrils. Whatever decisions were made it 
 would be the voice of the American people. 
 They were free to speak. America! What do 
 you say? 
 
 264 
 
DIE MUTTER 
 
 'HILE in Geneva I visited the Red Cross 
 authorities. This is the Central Bureau 
 for relief work. It gives aid to the wounded 
 and prisoners of all the belligerent countries. 
 Many horrible, tragic and beautiful stories pass 
 through the committee's hands. 
 
 After the war these stories will come to light. 
 At present the rigid censorship prevents pub- 
 lication, for it is impossible to carry printed or 
 written material across frontiers. 
 
 But one story told me needed no notes. It be- 
 came engraven in my memory. It is the story 
 of an English boy and a German mother. 
 
 I could not secure the letters that passed be- 
 tween these two but their contents, and the other 
 facts given are here set forth accurately. This 
 is a true story. 
 
 The sky was a soft, shining blue. The air 
 was still. The warmth of summer brooded over 
 the land. But no bird's song broke the still- 
 
 265 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 ness. No bees flutttered over flowers. The 
 earth lay torn and bare. In deep brown furrows 
 of the earth, hundreds of restless men lay or 
 knelt or stood. 
 
 The land was vibrant with living silence. But 
 now and again a gigantic smashing roar broke 
 the tense stillness. Then in some spots, the 
 ground spit forth masses of dirt, a soldier's hel- 
 met, a tattered rag of uniform, and bits of a 
 human body. 
 
 It was after such a mighty blast that a great 
 winged object came speeding from the north. It 
 skimmed low over the trenches and dipped, and 
 circled and paused above the English line. Like 
 a great eagle it seemed about to rush to earth, 
 snatch its prey, and then be off. But as it hung 
 suspended, another whirring monster flew swiftly 
 from the south. It winged its way above its 
 rival, then turning, plunged downward. The 
 great cannons grew silent. The eyes of the pig- 
 mies in the trenches gazed skyward. A breath- 
 less tenseness gripped the earth. Only sun and 
 sky shone on with no whisper of the mad fight 
 of these two winged things. 
 
 For a few wild moments they rushed at one 
 another. Then the whirring bird with wings of 
 
 266 
 
DIE MUTTER 
 
 white rose high, turned back, and plunged again 
 upon that other whose wings had huge, black 
 crosses. 
 
 It missed its prey, but there came a cracking 
 sound. A puff of smoke, like a hot breath, burst 
 from the creature of the iron crosses. It shud- 
 dered, dropped, turned, and fell head down. 
 With sweeping curves the pursuer also came to 
 earth. A lean, young Englishman sprang from 
 the whirring engine. His body quivered with 
 excitement. He sped with running feet to the 
 broken object lying on the ground. He knelt by 
 the twisted mass. Beneath the splintered wood 
 and iron he saw a boyish figure. It was still 
 and motionless. He gently pulled the body out. 
 A fair young German lay before him. A deep 
 gash in the head showed where a blow had 
 brought instant death. The body was straight 
 and supple, the features clear cut and clean. 
 A boy's face with frank and fearless brow looked 
 up at the young Englishman. The eyes held no 
 malice. They were full of shocked surprise. 
 The brown haired lad felt the lifeless heart. A 
 piece of cardboard met his fingers. He pulled 
 it from the coat pocket. It was a picture — a 
 picture of a woman — a woman with gray hair 
 
 267 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 and kindly eyes, — a mother whose face bore lines 
 of patient suffering. Scrawled beneath the por- 
 trait in boyish hand were the words, " Meine 
 Mutter." 
 
 A sob choked the young Englishman. Ten- 
 derly he gathered the lifeless form in his strong 
 arms. Then he rose and walked unheeding 
 across the open field of battle. But no angry 
 bullet pelted after those young figures. The men 
 in the trenches saw and understood. Behind 
 the lines the boy lay his burden down. Taking 
 paper and pencil from his pocket and placing 
 the little picture before him, he began to write. 
 
 When he had finished he placed the letter and 
 portrait in a carefully directed envelope. Then 
 walking hurriedly to his machine he prepared 
 for flight. Soon he was whirring low over the 
 enemy trenches. Leaning out, he dropped his 
 missile. The cannons roared, but no rifle was 
 turned on that bright figure. Instinctively, men 
 knew his deed was one of mercy. As the little 
 paper fluttered downward it was picked up by 
 eager soldier hands. A little cheer broke from 
 a hundred throats. Willing messengers passed 
 it to the rear. Speedily it went on its way. 
 
 Twenty-four hours later a mother with pale 
 268 
 
Aus tlcn lilliograpliisclieu Kiimtlerflugblattern „Kricyszcit" Mo. 10 
 
 Die Mutter 1914-1916 
 
 /c^A 
 
 C^^^t^^- 
 
 _jk<t:":<i i LLfaOH, 'j M,0 : I)»KI F.l, 
 
 This Picture Was Made by a Woman to Personify the Suffering 
 Motherhood of Germany 
 
DIE MUTTER 
 
 face and trembling hands fingered the white 
 scrap of paper. Her unseeing eyes gazed out 
 on a smiling landscape. Between green meadows 
 in the warm summer sunshine lay the glittering 
 Ehine. But she saw nothing. Her baby boy 
 was dead. Memories of him flooded her. She 
 felt again the warmth of the baby body as it 
 clung to her's and the pull of the tiny hands at 
 her breast. She saw him as a boy, his eager 
 restlessness. She heard his running steps at the 
 door and his cry of " mother." It was over. 
 That bright spirit was still. The third and last 
 son had been exacted. Her fingers touched the 
 letter in her lap. Her eyes fell on the penciled 
 words. Slowly they took meaning. This boy 
 who wrote : He 'd seen the beauty of her son. 
 He 'd lifted the dear body in his arms. His 
 heart was torn by anguish. What was it he said : 
 
 " ' It ? s your son. I know you can't forgive me 
 for I killed him. But I want you to know he 
 did n't suffer. The end came quickly. He was 
 very brave. He must also have been very good. 
 He had your picture in his pocket. I am send- 
 ing it back, though I should like to keep it. I 
 suppose I am his enemy, yet, I don't feel so at 
 
 271 
 
SHORT RATIONS 
 
 all. I 'd give my life to have Mm back. I did n't 
 think of him or you when I shot at his machine. 
 He was an enemy spying out our men. I 
 couldn't let him get back to tell his news. It 
 meant death to our men. It was a plucky deed. 
 We were covered up with brush. He had to come 
 quite low to see us and he came bravely. He 
 nearly escaped me. He handled his machine 
 magnificently. I thought how I should like to 
 fly with him. But he was the enemy and had to 
 be destroyed. I fired. It was over in a second. 
 Just a blow on the head as the machine crashed 
 to earth. His face shows no suffering, only ex- 
 citement. His eyes are bright and fearless. I 
 know you must have loved him. My mother died 
 when I was quite a little boy. But I know what 
 she would have felt if I had been killed. War 
 is n't fair to women. God ! how I wish it were 
 over. It is a nightmare. I feel if I just touched 
 your boy, he 'd wake and we 'd be friends. I 
 know his body must be dear to you. I will take 
 care of it and mark his grave with a little cross. 
 After the war you may want to take him home. 
 " For the first time, I 'm almost glad my 
 mother is n't living. She could not have borne 
 what I have done. My own heart is heavy. I 
 
 272 
 
DIE MUTTER 
 
 felt it was my duty. Yet now when I see your 
 son lifeless before me and hold your picture in 
 my hand, it all seems wrong. The world is dark. 
 O Mother, be my mother just a little too, and 
 tell me what to do. — Hugh.' " 
 
 Slowly great tears rolled down the woman's 
 cheeks. What was this monster that was smash- 
 ing men? Her boy and this other, they were 
 the same. No hate was in their hearts. They 
 suffered — the whole world suffered. Her coun- 
 try went in hunger. The babies in the near-by 
 cottages grew weak for want of milk. She 
 must n't tell that to the English lad. His heart 
 would break. Why must such suffering be? 
 Was she to blame? There was the English lad 
 without a mother. She had not thought of him 
 and others like him. Her home, her sons, her 
 Fatherland, these had been sufficient. But each 
 life hangs on every other. Motherhood is univer- 
 sal. 
 
 Suddenly she knew what to write. What she 
 must say to that grief-stricken English boy. 
 Quickly her hand penned the words : 
 
 " Dear Lad : There is nothing to forgive. I 
 see you as you are — your troubled goodness. I 
 
 273 
 
SHOKT RATIONS 
 
 feel you coming to me like a little boy astounded 
 at having done ill when you meant well. You 
 seem my son. I am glad your hands cared for 
 my other boy. I had rather you than any other 
 touched his earthly body. He was my youngest. 
 I think you saw his fineness. I know the torture 
 of your heart since you have slain him. To 
 women brotherhood is a reality. For all men 
 are our sons. That makes war a monster that 
 brother must slay brother. Yet perhaps women 
 more than men have been to blame for this world 
 war. We did not think of the world's children, 
 our children. The baby hands that clutched our 
 breast were so sweet, we forgot the hundred other 
 baby hands stretched out to us. But the Earth 
 does not forget, she mothers all. And now my 
 heart aches with repentance. I long to take you 
 in my arms and lay your head upon my breast to 
 make you feel through me your kinship with all 
 the earth. Help me, my son, I need you. Be 
 your vision, my vision. Spread the dream of 
 oneness and love throughout the land. When 
 the war is over come to me. I am waiting for 
 you. — Deine Mutter." 
 
 274 
 
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