My Three Years in a German Prison
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Beland Henri Severin. My Three Years in a German Prison
CHAPTER I. IT IS WAR
CHAPTER II. THE GERMAN TAVERN-KEEPER AND THE BRABANÇONNE
CHAPTER III “THANK YOU”
CHAPTER IV. DOING HOSPITAL WORK
CHAPTER V. THE CAPTURE OF ANTWERP
CHAPTER VI. THE EXODUS
CHAPTER VII. A DAY OF ANGUISH
CHAPTER VIII. THE GERMANS ARE HERE
CHAPTER IX. A GERMAN HOST
CHAPTER X. THE WORD OF A GERMAN
CHAPTER XI. BRITISH CITIZENS
CHAPTER XII. MATTERS BECOME COMPLICATED
CHAPTER XIII. A DESOLATE MAJOR
CHAPTER XIV. IN GERMANY
CHAPTER XV. THE STADTVOGTEI
CHAPTER XVI. LIFE IN PRISON
CHAPTER XVII. MEALS À LA CARTE
CHAPTER XVIII. ACTING JAIL PHYSICIAN
CHAPTER XIX. INTERESTING PRISONERS
CHAPTER XX. MACLINKS AND KIRKPATRICK
CHAPTER XXI. A SWISS AND A BELGIAN
CHAPTER XXII. SENSATIONAL ESCAPES
CHAPTER XXIII. HOPE DEFERRED
CHAPTER XXIV. A COLLOQUY
CHAPTER XXV. INCIDENTS AND OBSERVATIONS
CHAPTER XXVI. TALK OF EXCHANGE
CHAPTER XXVII. TOWARDS LIBERTY
CHAPTER XXVIII. SOME RECOLLECTIONS
CHAPTER XXIX. OTHER REMINISCENCES
CHAPTER XXX. AN ALSATIAN NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICER
CHAPTER XXXI. IN HOLLAND AND IN ENGLAND
CHAPTER XXXII. THE MILITARISTS AND THE MILITARIZED
Отрывок из книги
Great agitation reigned on the beach at Middelkerke on August 3, 1914. The newspapers had just published the text of the Kaiser’s ultimatum to the Belgian Government. The indignation was at its highest pitch. The population could not conceive that the German Emperor, who had been entertained in Brussels a few months previously, who had been the guest of the King of the Belgians and the Belgian nation, could stoop so low as to insult both King and people. From the villa where we lived we could watch the crowds congregate on the beach. From time to time groups would leave the main body and, forming into a procession, would march to the front of a tavern, whose owner and keeper was a German. On the front of this tavern were three large signs advertising the merits of a certain brew of German beer. The crowd had to give vent to its indignation in some way, and the German signs were a tempting target for the irate population. It took but a minute to pull down the lower sign. The use of a ladder was required to pull down the one above. While this rather comical performance was going on, the surging crowd yelled and hollered, and called upon the voluntary wreckers to pull down the topmost sign which adorned the front of the third story. The ladder was too short. When this was realized, a delegation was sent to the tavern-keeper to demand that he himself go up and pull down the obtrusive sign.
At first the man demurred, but seeing the increasing excitement he decided to obey the summons. A few seconds afterwards his rubicund face appeared at a window near the roof of the building and, not without difficulty, he succeeded in pulling down the sign, while the whole beach rang with the echoes of the crowd singing and a brass band playing Belgium’s national anthem, “La Brabançonne.”
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The train was running at express speed and a few minutes later we reached Bruges. On the station platform an expectant excited crowd had gathered.
The passenger I had addressed took up his suitcase and was hurriedly leaving the train when fifty voices in the crowd cried together: “C’est lui! C’est lui! C’est lui!” “It is he! It is he! It is he!”
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